


The Convict and the Guard

by fengxiaoj, groucha



Series: The Convict and the Guard [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Eventual Post-Seine AU, Graphic pictures of dolls, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Justice, M/M, Middle Aged Virgins, Period-Typical Racism, Prison Sex, Profanity, The Law, case-fic, confused!Javert, extensively researched, parallel universe: Toulon to Pont au Change, possessive!Valjean, pruner!Valjean, repressed!Madeleine, tree!Javert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 65
Words: 191,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengxiaoj/pseuds/fengxiaoj, https://archiveofourown.org/users/groucha/pseuds/groucha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thirty year love story between a convict Jean Valjean and a guard Javert, which starts in Toulon and ends in Paris. In the bagne some men are chained together by iron, while others are kept apart by the colors of their uniforms. The convict becomes a parole-breaker in search for forgiveness and the guard becomes an irreproachable police inspector in search of justice. At the end of the search they find each other.</p>
<p>Cover Art: http://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=0B2-oiRFgQM6IRHVCMkxDZ3c5ZU0</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: the Chaîne

**Author's Note:**

> Current progress: Main fic to end with them starting a new life in Paris. Plot had been planned for Paris but we are undecided on the format (long case-fic, smaller series of oneshots, etc)

In mid-May, the air in the countryside near Sorgues was warm and fragrant. Here, laborers weary from a hard day’s work gathered their tools at sunset and chatted amiably during their journeys home. The young commented on the many virtues of their loved ones or boasted of their latest gallant adventures to hearty laughs; the elders spoke of the impending harvest or the succulent lentil dish that awaited them at home. For them life ran in a calm and industrious routine which was rarely altered.

 

But this afternoon a monstrous creature of soulless bodies crawled on the dirt paths of the commune with its many legs, challenging the quiet of the hills and triggering with its mere existence an onslaught of fear and shame: the Chaîne bound for Toulon crossed the territory.  For a few hours in the middle of this workday Sorgues was no longer the small provincial town struggling to thrive in the mild climate of the South. All along the main street irritated shopkeepers shuttered their doors as a crowd of morbidly curious townsfolk eagerly awaited the time when the horror would show its face.

 

After captain and lieutenant rode into view on horseback, the good people of Sorgues gaped in disbelief at the trailing columns of hundreds of bruised and bleeding convicts chained together at their necks. Disbelief gave way to astonishment when a sharp-eyed onlooker pointed out the pair of battered carts loaded with supplies and those too weak to travel on foot -- was it possible for beasts like these to become ill? Soon the incessant rattle of the chains was drowned by a maelstrom of cruel insults from the righteous and bitter threats punctuated with obscene gestures from the convicts.    

 

It did not matter that the Chaîne passed through the same towns every two months.  In every town, for every incarnation of the Chaîne, verbal abuses invariably turned physical after the first stone was cast and this time it was no different. Many convicts lost their footing in the commotion that followed, thrown every which way by the sharp and unpredictable tugs on their mutual chain as all attempted, mostly in vain, to dodge the projectiles. A riot took place when several convicts of like mind veered off their column to assault the public, with hands ready to enter any unprotected pocket or rub with absolute impudence any female body their fingertips could reach. Such was the revenge of the damned.  A long, urgent whistle signal filled the air as guards struck the bodies in the column indiscriminately with their canes, adding a few more strikes for good measure even after guilty and injured alike fell back in line.

 

Off to the side of the street a dark-skinned boy with long black hair quietly awaited orders. A pair of dusty leather shoes tied together by their laces dangled from his neck and dwarfed his scrawny chest. After conferring with the town mayor, Captain Thierry spoke with the impeccable diction of a man accustomed to command and who expected obedience -- "Boy, tell the men that we head eastward to the stable of Malmaison, as usual!"

 

“Yes captain!” responded the boy with a sharp nod of his head.

 

"Remind them the orders were to cross the town as quickly as possible -- only four days to Toulon and they need all the hands to rush the next ship-of-the-line! It would be a shame to lose convicts to gendarmes now."

 

Though the captain did not change his tone, the observant boy understood the sense of urgency from the glance Thierry cast at the group of mounted gendarmes about to charge at the column.  He turned quickly on his bare feet and tugged at the torn sleeves of his ragged jacket to cover as much of his slender arms as possible, for they were already covered by a rainbow of bruises at various stages of healing.  He ran down the length of the column repeating the orders at the top of his voice. Aside from raised arms to shield his head he tried his best to ignore the projectiles that the hostile crowd hurled at the Chaîne, and which struck prisoners and guards alike.

 

Guards enforced the order with more caning; it mattered little that the curses of the convicts redoubled in intensity and violence, or that the cries laden with pain became desperate pleas: the uncouth men in uniform herded their cattle with little mercy to hasten the pace.

 

The Chaîne reached an esplanade that opened up in front of a huge stable and stopped.  For one night, the stable would be the bedroom of the prisoners, and the dirty straw utilized by the animals would be their beds. The boy watered and brushed the horses of the officers with an efficiency learned through practice while convicts emptied their bowels in groups over a trench serving as communal latrine, timed by blows of the whistle.

 

"Hey, clumsy boy!!" the cook's husky voice rose above the general din, "Come to collect the stew for the guards before it cool down! Wicked Boy, where the hell have you been?"

 

The boy traded brush and water bucket for the stew and hustled it over to the table where the grouchy guards dined in shifts and vented their displeasure over an ample supply of wine.  These jobs paid little, but kept the men well-fed.

 

“My arm is already sore from all the caning and I still have to search these animal's rectums.  Why can't they stop stealing?” complained one burly guard to no one in particular.  

 

"If only they were animals!” spat his neighbor, “A mule would never steal!”  

 

"Stop complaining and eat, otherwise you have to finish eating after enjoying a front row view of all their assholes!" laughed a different man.  The guard shook his head and held out his empty cup, which his companions quickly refilled.

 

The boy hurried back to the chef to gulp down a few bites of the stew himself, unfazed by the pained screams of convicts.  When the final group of guards rose the boy cleared the table to allow the captain and his lieutenant to deploy the maps and study the next day's itinerary.  With all these tasks complete he finally dug into his bowl of stew ravenously, while the groups of convicts collected their rations from the chef and ate sitting on the ground.  He did not hear the captain come and winced when the man's deep voice echoed.  

 

"Javert,” the captain asked, “have you studied your letters today?"

 

The boy immediately stood to attention, his food completely forgotten as he looked up at his captain in awe.  What magic did the captain invoke to keep his uniform eternally clean and crisp, as if he had just stepped out of his closet?  How did he keep his boots so shiny?  The boy looked dejectedly at his own shirt, so stained with sweat, blood and filth that it was impossible to guess its original color.  "Yes, captain," he responded.

 

"Good.  Now give me your paper."

 

Javert reached into the pocket of his worn-through trousers and took out a piece of carefully folded paper, which he presented to Thierry with both hands.

 

"Well, boy, now pay attention.” The captain went to the table and picked up a pencil with which he quickly scribbled some signs. “This is the letter k, this is the l, m and n.  Do you understand?"

 

"Yes, captain: k, l, m, n."

 

"That's it. Learn to draw them and bring me water for washing.”  At Thierry’s order the boy ceased tracing the outline of the letters with his finger and returned the paper to his pocket, but the captain did not leave for the house where he will sleep.  The boy followed the captain’s gaze down to the pair of shoes dangling from his neck and lowered his head in shame.

 

"Monsieur Javert,” Thierry said, “If you are not going to wear the shoes you should sell them and buy something nice for yourself.  You earned your pay and those must have cost more than a month’s wages.”

 

"Yes captain," Javert whispered, in awe that he had been addressed as Monsieur for the first time in his life.  With enough hard work, maybe in thirty, forty years even a romani child and son of a convict could become a captain like Thierry.  He must forge his own path for this long journey, and tonight it will begin with a single step -- taken in the pair of oversized shoes he must grow into.

 

Not far away, a young convict known as the Mute sat outside the stable, his meager portion of watery soup and black bread half finished in his lap.  His face was a mess of coagulated sweat, blood, and dust.  Dried tears crusted around his eyes and down the contours of his suntanned cheeks. His rear ached from the cavity search and his body had traveled to the opposite shore of France, but his mind never left home.

 

His neighbors have not heard a single word from him throughout the past three weeks, and thought him incapable of making any sound other than the guttural, mournful wail which emanated from him periodically.  Now his neighbor blatantly fished a piece of bread out of his soup and waved the soggy, dripping mass in front of his face.  Back when his daily toil was enough to put food on the table, his sister used to take pieces from his bowl and give to his nephews.

 

A tender smile appeared on the Mute’s face.

 

“See? He doesn’t even react. What did I tell you?  He is mute.  Give me my ten sous!” the neighbor demanded triumphantly after he swallowed the piece of bread.

 

“Maybe he is blind, not mute. He will speak, you go keep listening.”

 

“Then he is blind and mute! You just wait and see -- only four days more!”

 

The Mute did not hear.  His eyes were wide open, but they saw only a private and illusory reality.  A tree-pruner from a very young age, he lacked the mental faculty to comprehend why he had no option but to steal so his seven nephews could eat; nor could he comprehend why as a result, he was sentenced to five years in a Bagne with these men who boasted shamelessly about trinkets they stole at each stop made by the Chaîne.  He was afraid to see, to take in fully, the lush, thriving farmlands around him, so familiar yet foreign in every insect-bitten leaf and every speck of dust. He did not want to be aware that every step took him further away from the children whom he failed to deliver the stolen bread to, the eldest of whom will be sixteen in five years and the youngest eight. All of whom were already close to death the night he left for bread and in all likelihood had perished in the month and a half since.

 

The seven children now surrounded him at the end of a long day as the family waited for dinner.  The eldest boys pleaded for him to teach them how to climb trees, and the youngest, with the help of several siblings, tried to climb him as if he were a tree and his shoulders its highest branch. And when the always clumsy eldest boy crashed inexplicably to the ground in front of him, he became worried once again that this boy will fall from a tree while pruning and end up in an early grave like his grandfather.  He wrapped his hand around the boy’s underdeveloped bicep and helped him up.  

 

“Marcel --”

 

The lecture he was about to give to the boy was quickly forgotten as a pair of steely blue-grey eyes stared back in shock, deep-set and mesmerizing against olive-brown skin.  This boy was no longer his nephew but a guard, and he, Jean Valjean, was no longer an uncle but a convict.

 

“Sorry -- I am sorry,” he choked out as he let go of the boy’s arm.  His world shattered.  He wept inconsolably and retreated from the questioning eyes of the young guard to find his nephews again. The illusion had broken and soon their faces will fade in his memory. He prayed that each of them will find kindness in the world and that they will live, somehow, and that he had not sentenced them to death with his failure to provide for them.

 

“Ten sous, you motherfucker!”

 

“God damn it, Mute, couldn't you keep your mouth shut another four days? Son of a bitch!!"

 

So this convict was no mute after all. Young Javert dusted his shoes off with his hands and stood back up, careful not to trip over them again, then committed the face in front of him to memory even though he did not expect ever to meet this convict again.

  
Future events will prove him wrong. This convict will surprise him again and again, over the course of his life.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To investigate the operation of the Chaîne and situations that occurred during its journey, we consulted the following works:  
> \- Memoires de Vidocq, Chef de la Police de la Sureté jusqu’en 1827, Tome I  
> \- Bagnes, prisons et criminels. Tome I, B. Appert  
> Readers interested in learning more about the passage of the Chaîne through the town of Sorgues can consult:  
> http://www.etudessorguaises.fr/index.php/politique/88-la-chaine


	2. The Quarantine

A heavy scent of soap, a spotless dungeon all stone and lamps and chains hanging from the walls. Trays of bloody scissors. A tooth bounced across the floor of stone after a guard struck a disobedient convict in the face with the butt of his gun. While the crude men who guarded the Chaîne gladly pocketed their pay and went their separate ways, the next layer of hell opened its voracious mouth to the convicts they left behind, forgotten.

 

Convicts wearing torn red smocks hammered open the unlocked chains at their feet. In the unevenly shorn scalps of these convicts, Valjean saw his own future. How could this be?  

 

He was stripped of the rags he wore at gunpoint and inspected for fitness. They cut his brown curls, and a pile of dry chestnut leaves had gathered at his feet. They submerged him in a huge tank of water, scrubbed him down, and a light summer rain had just fallen on the fields. How could men approve of this degradation of one of their own, who only ever wanted to provide for his family?

 

In shame and grief he tried desperately to remember the man he used to be, but a number was repeated over and over in his ears and refused to be unheard.  24601, five years! This one is 24601!

 

“24601 is fit for labor!”

“24601, move!  Move!”

 

He had become a stranger, foreign to his own body, alien to his mind, unable to recognize himself.

 

-

 

Sometimes in the middle of a storm the hail softens into an angry cold rain, only to return later with renewed fury.  Likewise came three days of quarantine for the inmates who arrived from the Chaîne, as a brief respite between one hell and another.

 

Locked in that room full of strangers, Jean Valjean dreamt the first two days away lying on his wooden pallet.  His hands moved deftly among the branches of the beautiful apple tree which he was pruning. He longed to return to those days of innocence, when he thought that hell was to work from sunrise to sunset; a time where in his most bitter moments he cursed fate for putting on his young shoulders the responsibility to feed seven children who were always hungry.  Yet every time his imagination took flight, the further he allowed it to lead him, the more difficult it became for his soul to re-enter a neglected body drenched in sweat and devoid of purpose.

 

He overheard fragments of various conversations against his will; unlike him, many inmates sought to make the best use out of these days of relative freedom. For the most experienced, this meant acceptance of what was to come in good humor.

 

When a man sat down roughly on the pallet right next to him, he glared in annoyance. But that man was busy looking up through the stone ceiling to the heavens, his hands clasped palm to palm in a mockery of prayer.  “My god!” he plead dramatically, “I want that my knight has a large mouth and thick lips, and a rounded ass.”  It was clear to Valjean that many of the experienced inmates spent much of their time thinking about the man they will be paired with, which they referred to as their knights, and that somehow all of those thoughts were crude and sexual.  He could not understand it.  If in this time of despair God would bless him with a brother, all he wanted was a decent, hard-working, and honest man. But there was probably no honest man in Toulon.

 

“Was that what you asked for every night?” one of the convict’s new friends asked, nodding his head as if he approved of the man’s taste, “And how did it work out for you last time?”

“Not good at all!  Ended up with a disgusting old fart who complained of aching teeth every time I forced him to suck.”

“That is too bad,” a shrug and a consolation, “Pray harder this time.”

“Can’t you see I am trying?  God, be better to me this time around!”

“But was your knight fat, did he have breasts? Maybe God was kind to you in a different way.”  Valjean followed with tired eyes the distorted fingers of the man’s hands as they grasped at something in the air, and turned his face away in disgust when the man stuck out his tongue and gave the imaginary object a lick.  “Drooping breasts is still better than no breasts!”

“Dumb man, you can’t fuck a breast! What is the use of breasts if there is no hole to fuck?”

“Your knight had no asshole?  Did you hold him in your arms when he died of not being able to shit?”

At this, many in the room burst into laughter and either gave the convict a slap in the back or slammed their hands into the pallet. Even though all the commotion died down immediately when irritated guards entered with their truncheons, Valjean could not sleep anymore.

 

He then left his pallet and began to pace the room like a caged animal looking for a gap, a weakness in the structure of the walls that would allow escape.  From prison and also from sorrow.  Run away, returning with his family to his life of misery and freedom, as if that were still possible. His mind told him not; instinct assured him that there was not another way to keep his sanity.

 

While the meek begged to deaf ears for mercy the opportunistic plotted fanciful schemes for escape; next to veterans engaged in a secretive conversation full of codewords with their brothers in crime, repeat offenders told colorfully embellished stories of their time in the bagne to others willing to listen. Some taught the novices the tricks to avoid the bastonades, to fool the guards, to earn money.

 

“Eighty-three francs and change, I earned in one year in Rochefort,” an old man boasted to his disbelieving audience, “Yes it’s true!  Every franc of it, true!”

“What did you do, old man, wash the guard’s stinking feet?”

“No, for that amount, I say he must have wiped their asses!” said another man with pockmarked face, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously.

“Ignorant boys, do not insult me! I became a barber after three years of good behavior.”

“You gave this kind of haircut,” an indignant convict said, jabbing an index finger into his scab-laden scalp, “and you call yourself a barber? Did they send you to prison for lack of shame?!”

“Twice!!” someone eager to witness a fight answered on the old man’s behalf.

Others gathered around the two men at the center of the heated argument, raising their fists and screaming  half in jest, looking for a new distraction.  But he did not care for it:  He had stopped paying attention.  

 

Jean Valjean’s chest leapt with a wild hope: if his family had found a way to survive during these last two months, maybe he could send some money to relieve their misery.  Jeanne would need almost a franc daily to feed the children. Thirty francs a month. How could he earn such an amount of money in the bagne?  He must find a way; after all, there must be something that a robust and hardworking man could do in such a big place.

 

With these thoughts occupying his entire mind, Valjean became a sad and silent man who had found a reason to keep fighting.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Works consulted during the investigation:
> 
> \- "Memoires de Vidocq, Chef de la Police de la Sureté jusqu’en 1827, Tome I"  
> \- "Bagnes, prisons et criminels. Tome I," B. Appert  
> \- "Les forçats considerés sous le rapport physiologique, moral et intellectuel." H. Lauvergne.


	3. Betrothal

"Out! Out! Lazy dogs, time to work!”

When the guards came, they brought with them many eprouvés -- convicts of good behavior who took care of all routine tasks and maintenance -- and a cart full of chain links and rivets. In a complete turnabout from the solemnity three days ago, this time the guards carried on their joking conversation while they used their truncheons to roughly form the passing convicts into two columns: On the right the newcomers; on the left the current inhabitants of the bagne who were not chained to another: their knights had been released after they toiled away their crimes or had been absolved of their garlands and promoted to be eprouvés thanks to years of good behavior. Less upliftingly and sadly far more often, their knights had simply died.

Valjean was pondering the meaning of this division when a metallic rattle attracted his attention: through the two columns, a man of imposing appearance was moving toward the rest of the guards, with a sword hanging from his belt. One of the chiefs, no doubt. The officer did not wait to reach the guards to start giving orders.

“Gentlemen, I want all the repeat offenders that just arrived to be coupled to the elderly.” The officer spoke as if he were not simply relaying orders which were identical each time, but instead was addressing an audience of hundreds. He looked around, making a mental note of the faded faces trying to hide from his gaze. "And make sure to pair all rioters with walking corpses." Pleased with his own joke, he turned on his heel and left the way he had come.

A paunchy guard began to walk up and down the columns, escorted by another one who talked incessantly while holding sheets of crumpled, dirty paper. "Wait, isn’t that 4607?” asked the fat guard to the other, while the eprouvés riveted the chains on convicts’ ankles together. His colleague glanced at the piece of paper filled with numbers, then gave him a confirmation, “Yes, his knight died of fever.”

“So that big mouthed trouble-maker needs a new knight.” The guard said rhetorically and gave his sideburns a few strokes with his fingers. An amused gleam appeared in his eyes. Extending his cudgel across the path of one convict to hold him back, he barked for others to “Keep walking!” before he held back another by the collar. “87493 and 54988!” he read from the metal plates on their caps, “You two look like a match made in heaven!” A few guards traded knowing looks. “Oooh, handsome Monsieur,” cooed one of them in a horrible impression of a lovelorn maiden, “Please grant me your love and a garland!”

“Eprouvé, what are you waiting for?” the guard barked, “Join them!” And so the eprouvre riveted the ends of the chains together into a garland.

Valjean allowed himself to be swept into the flow of bodies and shuffled towards the door, his eyes on the ground to watch for the mess of chains slithering like so many venomous snakes latched onto each of their ankles. 

“I heard from a guard on the Chaîne that there is a mute in this group… who is the mute?” The guard suddenly called out to the room, amused smile still on his lips. “Ah, a mute couldn’t speak. I should ask: Where is the mute?!”

The convicts betrayed the unlikeable, taciturn man without much thought. “Him!” shouted one, and pointed a dirty finger in the direction of Valjean. There was nowhere to hide. “24601, they are calling for you!” a convict shouted right into Valjean’s ear, and gave him a shove on his back towards the front of the line. Hands and truncheons then pushed him out into the gap between the columns, where in the distance he saw a convict approaching under escort by a guard. The guard’s voice could be heard as he informed the convict, “Found you a knight who will soon be your favorite, 4607! A mute -- perhaps if no one talks back to you, you will eventually learn to shut up.” 

The rattle of the chains grew louder and louder as the newly wedded pairs shuffled down the hallway in the opposite direction, out to the shipyard. Valjean grit his teeth and accepted his fate with a bitter heart. He had hoped for too much; his knight will be one who wore a green cap indicating a life sentence, one of those which others described as “soulless”. 

To hope was to open himself to disappointment. He would not make the same mistake again.

A single swipe of a mace by an eprouvé sealed their marriage. The older, strongly-built man flashed him a grin full of yellowed, broken teeth and slammed a heavy hand into his back in a gesture meant to be friendly. "You're my new knight," the voice was rough and unsettling, "And I am yours." Then the pleasantries ended and he began to walk without notice, forcing Valjean to hop awkwardly on his unchained foot a few steps to catch up.

Valjean’s eyes darted from garland to garland as they stepped out to a gorgeous blue sky; he was not fully aware of his thoughts until he arrived at the inevitable conclusion -- in each pair, one led while the other followed. Then his knight spoke again.

"Lad, look at that fat link," he said, pointing to the middle of the chain where two rings were riveted together. “From now on, you will hold onto that link as if it was a precious bar of gold. If you drop it and I trip on the tangled chain -- " he took a step towards Valjean until their faces were so close that the tips of their noses touched. Valjean saw the pieces of beans which were stuck in the teeth and caught wind of the nauseating breath, more putrid than he thought possible on a strict diet of beans and bread. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw two outstretched fingers near his hip jab upwards in a sharp movement, certainly a mime for the threat to follow -- “I will cut off your shriveled balls and shove them up your ass.”


	4. Knights in a Garland

Guards of the bagne shackled convicts together as knights in a garland but God sometimes conceived of other kinds of pairs. A union of two souls, which He bound together with chains not of iron but something else entirely, something which neither strength nor time could break: Fate. Inevitable and immutable, forged with links made of the most fundamental of human emotions: anger, loneliness, and fear.

This is a story of two men born apart but each an incomplete fragment that cannot reach its full meaning without the other. Sometimes the roles they played in life placed them on opposing sides across an insurmountable divide and the scripts they followed directed them down a path towards mutual annihilation, but the bond between them was a constant gravity which trapped them firmly in each other’s orbits. There they were doomed to finish their lives separated yet never apart. 

Their souls shared an overwhelming desire of understanding and perhaps even affection, this intimate breath which moved all souls. There was only one bridge which would allow them to meet after a lifetime of differences -- Empathy. A distant notion, tenuous as the air which they breathed, elusive but for fleeting moments of lucidity. 

A different bridge awaited them. The Pont au Change, where one will jump to his death to break their chain, just as the other realized that he no longer wished to live. Can they change this destiny?


	5. Shameful Beginnings

**J A V AI R**

 

Messy and crooked letters revealed themselves when the boy blew away the metal filings with one big breath. He brushed off the remaining tiny specks of dust which settled into the scratched lines with his fingers and sucked the small bead of blood from where a burr cut through his skin.

 

A week ago he received his ten franc payment for the month after the Chaîne arrived at Toulon. It was his third.  He had used a small part of the first for a ribbon to tie his hair, and the rest for the pair of shoes he was still learning to wear. In another two weeks they -- the captain, the cook, and a few other guards who helped them get all the wagons and supplies back to Paris for the next Chaîne -- will receive another payment. A week of playing with the coin in his pocket, and he finally confessed to the cook that he did not know what to buy.

 

“Boy, you don’t have to spend it!  Save it to buy a ring for when you find a pretty wife!”  The cook then dug through pots and pans before handing him a small rusted metal box which smelled of tea leaves. “Ask the captain to store this with the personal luggage, boy.”

 

Into this box, he deposited his most valuable belongings: a spare stick of lead and a ten franc piece.  Captain Thierry agreed to trade him a gold Louis for his twenty francs when they arrive at Paris.

 

And then with his scrap of paper full of letters as reference, he carved his name into its front.

 

This was the first object he owned which had his name on it, and the feel of it in his hand, the sight of the letters, filled his heart with pride and disbelief. If this boy were like most other boys his age, he would have run around the town the wagon train stopped at for the night and shown it to all the other children.

 

The more fortunate children still had tender hands at his age because they did not need to learn the value of work.  Children like Javert did not dare mingle with the sons of laborers leading a dull life, learning the trades of their parents to perpetuate the lifestyle which had taken root over countless generations.   

 

Children like Javert were the fruit of misery’s bitter seed.  His first possession was more than metal and coins; it was the pride of having found a way to escape poverty.  Other children in his circumstances would have run in search of their siblings to showcase the letters composing his name and the humble contents of the box; they would have allowed the younger ones to admire them for taking this important step to adulthood and independence.  But Javert did not know whether he had any siblings, and worse, he was unable to understand how the relationship between siblings differed from the ties that bound other kids together: It was something that did not arouse his interest.  

 

Some children like Javert would have relieved some of their mothers’ burdens with their coins, using them to pay the rent of the huts that sheltered them, or the black bread which fed them. But the thin, dark child who earned his living among prisoners had learned to sleep in the open many years ago and was very happy not knowing the whereabouts of his mother.  

 

Other children, less accustomed to solitude and violence - or perhaps simply more wise - would have recognized the pride in the cook’s face when he offered the old box of tea; but with Javert's life being what it had been until then, he had learned to do without affection.  Especially that from an uncouth man like the cook, whose every action and nuance provided a painful reminder of his origins.

 

Instead he strove to follow Thierry’s steps, copied his gestures and paid attention to each of his words.  

He used Thierry as others used a mirror; he sought the best of Thierry, then tried to find those same traits within himself.

 

Decidedly, Javert was not like other children.

 

 


	6. First Night in Saint François

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor edits made on June 28 2014.

The guards herded them to an enormous pile of long wooden beams, each almost two men tall, and told them to carry the beams to an empty ramp on the water’s edge where support struts were being erected in preparation for a new ship. Valjean relished this chance to make use of his strength, and after a few trips where he stretched out muscles following a month of disuse, he was eager to carry more.

 

"Let go of half of those beams, asshole!” his knight growled behind him, “You are not going to carry them alone. Three beams at once, that's more than enough!"

 

Valjean grudgingly acknowledged the older man’s point; he placed half of the beams back on the stack and began to walk, until it became clear that even this was not enough of a concession. His knight turned his head and checked that none of the guards were watching them before he picked up the chain connecting them and shook it, as if those links themselves had meaning.

 

"I'm Patou, I live in this dump for six years now,” he said.  “And you are …?" Valjean set down the beams and ignored his knight.  Why start with a threat, but attempt to be friendly now?  In the ensuing silence Valjean got the distinct impression that he was the only man who was tense, and that his restlessness was amusing to Patou.

 

"Monsieur 24601, then."  Patou answered his own question with a throaty laugh, then hoisted the dropped beams onto his shoulder as if the entire conversation had not happened at all.  “No!” Valjean called out before Patou managed to walk far enough that he would have no choice but to follow, “I am Jean Valjean!”

 

His indignation set Patou off on another fit of laughter. “Handsome and with personality -- makes things interesting.”

 

After work that night they were herded back into a gigantic room where several hundred convicts slept with their feet chained onto one of two wooden platforms, the tôlards. They called this room the Saint-François.

 

Here in the enclosed room where the only doors opened into narrow corridors, he struggled to find air to fill his lungs; within minutes he was used to the stench emanating from the bodies and the buckets in which prisoners relieved their bowels, but the feeling of suffocation was impossible to avoid. He panted and yet did not dare expose an inch of his body from underneath his coarse woolen blanket, because that dirty piece of cloth was the only thing which provided any sense of privacy from the two bodies pressed up against him.

 

He turned his back to Patou to forget his existence and had barely managed to fall asleep with his eyes squeezed shut to keep out the bright lights when continuous knocking woke him again: the guards checked the bars of the windows to make sure they were not damaged.  That was when he felt a rubbing movement against his thigh -- it was his neighbor’s crotch.  Shocked wide awake, instinct impelled him to sit up but Patou's hand landed on his chest and held him down.  Valjean turned his head and discovered that the man was snoring with one eye open.  

  
Patou's arm moved from his chest to his shoulder, in a posture which even Valjean understood.  In Toulon this meant: This one is mine.  This realization sent a chill down his spine, but he was too tired to care.  For the moment, a forearm resting on his shoulder was an affordable price to pay in exchange for a night of peace.


	7. Soulless businessman

While they slaved away Patou favored one arm over the other and Valjean pondered for hours whether a clear demonstration of his anger was necessary to motivate his knight to do his share of the lifting. Common sense informed him that anger was a luxury he could ill afford at a time when prudence was his only ally. What he did not understand yet was that here in the bagne, being chained to a knight who was a lazy worker was such a trivial problem that it was hardly worth a mention, like a few ants at the root of a tree overrun by creeping vines. 

One day they were approached late in the afternoon by a lanky convict who dragged behind him a gigantic torn sheet of canvas and one stupid-looking knight. At the time the guard on watch was known as “Dijon”; he was stone deaf, more easily distractible than a dog in the garden, and only one of the many who bided their time in Toulon until retirement. He could be made to look away for minutes with sufficient encouragement, as he did now to Valjean’s surprise and confusion. 

“Patou, this one is quite a looker! And young, probably has a nice, tight hole,” the prisoner said affably and with good humor, not bothering to lower his voice. Patou laughed. “Soon. Soon I will be able to find out.” he answered with a crooked smile. Valjean clenched his jaw in anger -- all of Patou’s acquaintances had treated him as if he had no more function than as a walking receptacle for the beast’s dick. He'd had enough. 

Valjean watched Dijon with apprehension but the guard kept his back turned and a small plume of smoke rising above the tall black hat suggested that the man was busy taking huffs from a cigarette while watching the seagulls. Meanwhile, Patou’s conversation with the prisoner had disintegrated into one of urgent and tense monosyllables.

“Nail.”  
“One.”

Valjean turned his attention back to the inmates just in time to see the lanky prisoner furtively offer Patou one franc, and Patou reach into the sleeve of the arm he favored and offer the convict a closed fist. “Show it!” the convict hissed as he closed his fist around the coin. Patou tsked and obligingly revealed the object in his hand: a long, thick nail, partially rusted. Valjean’s jaw dropped as a chill ran down his back. This could not possibly be legal, could it?

His opinion did not matter; both seller and buyer were pleased and the transaction was successfully negotiated in a matter of seconds. The convict showed his satisfaction with a toothy smile before departing with both canvas and knight. “Deal.” he said, “Until next time.” 

Valjean walked furiously, unwilling to be drawn into Patou’s covert business in plain sight of the guards. It was bad enough to have to endure the man’s ceaseless wandering during their free time to have to also watch his back during work hours. 

“Mute bastard, stop walking for a moment,” Patou snapped. Valjean tried in vain to ignore him and keep walking so as not to attract the attention of the guards but his knight was too experienced to let himself be governed by a newcomer. Without warning, Patou let go of his end of the log they carried in anticipation of the result: both the log and Valjean crashed to the ground.

Dijon descended upon them like an avenging angel, his deafness granting him the impunity to scream every word at the top of his lungs: “24601 get up! 4607 help your knight!” His cane rained down mostly on Valjean, for Dijon like the rest of Toulon’s guards knew two things; first, the ships were most important and by extension a single log was worth more than a convict, and second, that what a fallen man needed to help him up was a sufficient amount of blows.

That night after the final whistle blew to order the Saint-François into silence, a sore, angry Valjean tried to understand why he preferred the blows of the guards to those he received from his knight. The only answer he found was that while the guards’ caning brought the metallic tang of blood to his mouth, Patou’s punches had the taste of bitter betrayal. He often felt how Patou strove to strip away the last shreds of dignity he had left in him with beatings and insults: this should be reason enough to hate him. 

“Modest little girl, aren’t you?” Patou teased after Valjean shrugged off the hand placed on his shoulder. Humiliating words but still only words, and Valjean bottled up his anger until a cold hatred grew inside him. Gradually Patou became more bold, more explicit. 

One night soon after, his knight whispered the following words into his ear: “Tomorrow is Sabbath. Do not forget to groom yourself for me.”


	8. With a stick of lead as his sword

Convicts on the Chaîne came in all ethnicities and spoke many dialects. The single trait which all these convicts shared was that they broke the law.  The law was very important.  

 

Javert occasionally saw groups of roma wandering through the same towns they crossed in the heart of France, dressed in their colorful robes and obeying their own hierarchy.  Occasionally the Chaîne contained one or two of them, and he had learned not to react to the spiteful, scathing looks they cast his way.

 

In this Chaîne, however, three of them were chained very close together and two seemed to be constantly watching the third -- a man with long gray hair which was going white -- for any slight gesture of his fingers, small nod of his head.  Javert ignored them until he overheard them conversing in their tongue while he passed with the captain’s hot water.  It was nothing more than an innocent exchange where one of the younger men inquired “Are you tired?”, and to which the older man responded, “I am fine.”

 

Javert checked his step, set down the bucket of water and walked up to the old man. “You may have been an elder,” he said in his still accented French; from both directions he heard the sound of chains pulled taut -- both of the younger men were eager to come to this man’s defense.  Javert thought of the man who taught him to repair metal tools for a living when he stubbornly refused to speak lies to help his fraud of a mother with her fortune-telling business; that was the only man of his kind he knew whom he respected. But the gestures this man made for the younger men to calm, to stay, reminded him of the clan patriarch who ostracized him when he decided to leave with the Chaîne.  Back then he had to swallow his indignation, but here in the Chaîne the captain gave the orders and no one else.  “You are now a criminal and cannot give orders to any other man,” he said in a stern tone, “Stop or you will be punished.”

 

The old man towered over Javert and spoke to him in the romani tongue. “Do not forget you are one of us.” he said, “When they look at you, boy, they will forever see a romani.”  Could a man ever wipe from his memory the language in which his mother scolded him?  No.  His ability to understand the comment seemed to have proven it right.  “They may see a romani,” he conceded, shame and hurt burning his face, “but never a convict!”

 

“Elders in my youth told of how in every wolf litter there was always a mutt who will grow to be a dog and obediently devour its own brothers. I’ve never seen such a dog until now.” And now the old man did something Javert had only ever heard described in stories parents told to frighten their children.  With his bare toe the old man drew a cross into the dirt and spit onto it.  Some of the spit splattered onto Javert’s spotlessly clean pair of shoes.

 

“You are no longer one of us,” the old man announced.  Javert reached up and gave the man a slap across the face.  “I am the son of a convict and a whore, horrible people, both very horrible even to their own son.”  Javert almost choked on his words for the painful memories this admission unearthed in his mind. “If those are wolves then I would die the lowliest dog than live as the mightiest wolf!”

 

“Why the delay?” the captain called out to him in a stern tone from the open window in the house up ahead. There was no time to waste feeling sorry for himself.  “Go be king of the Bagne,” he said to the men he had turned his back to, the tone cold and devoid of emotion.

 

He picked up his bucket and savored its weight in his hand.  “It is nothing, captain,” he shouted to the lighted bedroom window, the long shadow of the waiting man cast onto its frosted pane.  He walked briskly from the sound of iron links being strained, as the old man told his followers, “He is not worth it.”

 

Not worth what?  Javert thought bitterly while he waited for the door to be opened after he gave it a few sturdy knocks.  By the time the captain impassively dipped his hand into the water, Javert knew it must already have cooled slightly from usual, and that the captain noticed.  The hurt and shame he felt now was accompanied by an even worse feeling, of guilt.  Javert lowered his head and thought to himself again, that elder said: he is not worth it.  But the truth was that they were not worth it.  What was he doing wasting minutes when he was supposed to be working?  Whatever punishment the captain decided to hand down, be it a caning or no food or no pay, he would deserve it.  Unbeknownst to him, Captain Thierry was pondering something completely different.

 

After a long thoughtful look at the boy, Thierry said to him, “Tomorrow night you will deliver with the water a report of today’s events.  Both written and oral.  Oral means you speak it to me, Monsieur Javert.”

 

“Ehh?” Javert vocalized in surprise, only belatedly adding, “Captain?” when he looked up and saw the graying man’s wrinkled face.  Thierry did not appear to be inclined to explain himself further.  “A report, written on what, Captain?” Javert asked timidly.

 

“The back of this,” Thierry said, and handed him a piece of paper from the top of a discard pile.

“Tomorrow night when I bring the water, yes Captain.”

 

Javert took his leave with his mind racing.  The only time he could focus and work in peace between now and when he brought water to the captain tomorrow was, well, now.  Now, when everyone else was going to sleep.  The captain must have made this unusual request because he wanted to hear the truth before he decided on a punishment.  That seemed to be how the courts worked so it made perfect sense.  

 

The full moon was bright in the sky, and instead of sitting under a lantern on the wall of the stable where the convicts slept, Javert took a seat on the grass near the wagons and used the moon and stars as candles.  Fireflies darted about above the wild and tall grass, painting ephemeral streaks of warm yellow glow around him in a graceful dance.  

 

In his younger days in Paris, on the happy nights when they found a place to sleep with time to spare he would chase these insects, clawing at the muggy and humid summer air along the banks of the Seine with his child-sized hands.  He would do this for hours with a tenacity and patience far beyond his years; whenever he caught one between his cupped hands he would crouch down and set the firefly free between his bare legs so it would fly up into the shirt he wore -- an old shirt his mother found somewhere that reached down to his calves and had sleeves hemmed to two thirds of their original lengths, which were flappy and loose on his arms.  Many of the fireflies would either never enter his shirt when they flew from his palm or quickly navigate their way out of it, but one time after persisting tirelessly for half a night he glowed like one of the streetlamps in the center of the city, where the more well-off spent their time.  When his mother eventually yelled for him to head back into the room they shared with many other families, he found that the others who had always given the gypsy mother and child a wide berth now looked at him as if acknowledging his existence for the first time.  The children rushed up to him and stared in awe.  

 

This was one of the fondest memories he had of his childhood.  But, as usual, his mother was quick to accuse him of something he did not fully understand.  “It is so bright, how am I going to sleep?  Already so selfish, so much like him!”  That last word, “him”, always came out from her lips with pure venom.  By “him”, she referred to the convict father he had never met.  The other children scurried away back to the comfort of their mothers’ laps, and he was left wondering whether she had decided to hate her son from the moment she found out she was pregnant.

 

Javert reached up reflexively to close his hand around a firefly which flashed directly in front of his eyes.  He missed.  Now a part of his mind wondered how many fireflies he could catch if he just gave it a try.  But he would not allow himself to be distracted from his duties once again.   

 

The front of the paper in his hand was filled with some kind of list, and Javert could read one line which said “beans” on the left and “10 f” on the right.  He flipped it over and began to write on it with the stick of lead he carried in his pants.  “A bad convict talked and gave orders and was dis-obey-dient.”  He pushed the lead into the paper against his palm, one stroke at a time.  “I ordered him to stop.  We said angry words and I slapped him.  Javert is guilty because the water is cold.”

 

A firefly landed on his paper and flashed.  Javert doubted that anyone aside from himself could decipher the words on the paper, however as long as he could read it he could deliver the oral report.  But were the words on the page a truthful description of the events?  No.  He became angry at them also because he knew those people never respected French laws, and would obey their elder instead of the guards even after they received a prison sentence.  They never registered births or marriages with the civil government, and the only reason he, Javert, was a registered citizen of France was because he had the dubious fortune of being born in a prison.  How could he explain all of this?

 

He was exhausted and his bruised arms ached.  The unsharpened stick of lead and his clumsy control meant that he was nearing the bottom of the page after only a few short sentences.  In the remaining space, he scribbled the words “They were gypsys” then he fell asleep.

 

The next night he read his four sentence long report to Thierry and then handed over the piece of paper, which the captain held to the oil lamp to read.  Javert waited quietly, expecting to be told to rewrite it because it was illegible.

 

“Monsieur Javert, I asked for a report for the events of yesterday, not only this incident,” Thierry said in his strict tone but at the same time gestured for the nervous young man to calm down.  “In this Chaîne a prisoner is a prisoner and a guard is a guard, no matter if they are gypsy or not.  Never let your personal biases interfere with your judgement.  You did well to take responsibility for your mistake and will submit a report on the events of today at the same time tomorrow.”

 

Javert waited long after Thierry finished speaking, and did not move until Thierry pointed at the discard pile of papers for him to take a sheet.  Four sentences on one incident took him half the night.  A report on the entire day may not be possible even with a full night, but he will give it an honest attempt.  After all, there was nothing more a man could give.

 

 


	9. Dominance

Sabbath in the Bagne was celebrated every Sunday. The convicts cleaned and performed other chores in their rooms in the morning then prayed at mass. After that, they were free to wander in the courtyard until sunset. Released from the mindlessly repetitive and physically exhausting physical labor, Valjean sank into sadness. His life seemed to him as an extension of gray and barren, meaningless time; once again he found himself with the strength and will to work, but there was no work to be found. If he was not working, how could he earn money to send home?

Patou led him to a pile of planks in one corner of the courtyard and patted one of them, inviting his knight to take a seat. The man began to unpack the contents of a bundle he brought: A bottle of wine, cheese and bread stuffed with meat. 

"Not so bad, eh?” Patou said, pleased with himself. “Eat! I am a kind man, look how generous I am. Yes, I'm actually a good catch." 

The sight and scent of the food, even the sound of Patou taking big bites out of the bread filled Valjean with revulsion. He did not know what Patou spent for this kind of luxury, but knew that whatever it was must have come from the sales Patou made. If he were paid that amount of coin he would have sent it home.

“What, you actually stuffed yourself full with that watery waste those stinking guards feed us?” Patou continued their one-sided conversation with his mouth full, spraying bits of partially chewed food onto the plank between them. “Then stay quiet and don’t wreck my appetite!”

Valjean turned away and closed his eyes. This was already his third Sabbath in Toulon and he had seen none of his pay. Could it be that they were paid by the month? At this thought, he turned to Patou and asked, "When do we get paid?"

Patou began to laugh, showing his teeth and his lunch, but he refrained from answering. Instead, he swallowed the last bite and leapt off the plank to stand in front of Valjean, placing his hands on Valjean’s thighs in a rough gesture impossible to misinterpret. "Now I must take possession of what is mine,” Patou said, sliding his palms up and down as if attempting to calm the other man when the muscles tensed.  
Despite the warning the night before, Valjean was incapacitated by shock. This reaction was taken by Patou as an apparent consent, and he began stroking Valjean’s chest in a powerful caress while his other hand urged Valjean's legs apart to allow their bodies closer. 

"Jean, boy, you gotta do this for me. A man has needs ... and if you do not take care of me, who will?" Patou's smile was ferocious. "I assure you I am considerate, I will not let you be unsatisfied. A handsome young man like you could make money for me... But no. I never share my boys. " And finally Valjean burst into action: he pushed Patou away and rose to his feet. "No!" he said, and tried to come up with more words to express his refusal more clearly, but the only word which came was, “No!”

"Listen to me, you fucking peasant! Nobody asked your opinion." Anger began to swell the veins in Patou’s temples. He grabbed Valjean by the front of his smock and punched his belly so hard that Valjean sank to his knees, unable to breathe. A hand closed around Valjean’s throat forced him to lift his face until his gasps for air took in the scent of the other man's crotch. 

"Do you want money, Jean? Learn how to use your mouth! Suck my cock well, and I will give you some sous. That will be the only money you'll see in the coming years." 

"You lie!" Valjean spat while wheezing. Patou drove a brutal fist against his face which knocked him to the ground, yet Valjean felt no pain, only seething anger. He did all the work the guards asked for, without complaint. Experienced inmates spoke of earning money. Why would he not be paid?

"Why the hell would I do that? Who cares about your fucking money?” Patou aimed another blow against his ribs, but Valjean was able to roll out of the way. He seized Patou’s arm after the other man struck his fist against the ground. "They will pay you when you get out of here! Idiot, let go of me!" Patou swung his free arm wildly at Valjean, but could not cause much damage; meanwhile Valjean stood up, twisted Patou’s arm behind his back, then pulled it painfully away from his huge body. Patou screamed. A sharp, endless cry that echoed through Valjean's painfully dazed head.

“Why would they not pay me?”   
“Damn it --” Patou screamed again when Valjean gave his arm another tug, and answered through gritted teeth, “Because you have not fulfilled your fucking sentence!”   
“I want my money right now!”   
“Then find another way to earn it! I was giving you a way!” 

Although life was hard back in Faverolles, he had always managed to feed a tiny flame of hope. In the Bagne there were no flames and there was no light. “Keep your hands away from me; I will not hesitate to crush you if you touch me again.” he said, gazing into Patou’s eyes and daring the other man to test the truth of his statement. They were connected by a chain, and for the next years will never be more than three meters apart. There was no escape.

-

The rest of that Sabbath and throughout the next week Patou met with his customers with increased fervor, morose and sullen; his restless gaze tirelessly searched the yard and paused more than usual watching the movements of the younger men. Patou had accepted the fact that he will not be able to force Valjean to give him what he wanted for free, so now he shopped for it in the market -- with discretion. 

He would walk up to knowledgeable looking convicts and whisper phrases such as: “Tell them Patou is looking for a hole, for two francs!” To which the inmates would unfailingly react with a judgmental look at Valjean, the man who had somehow failed in his duty to satisfy his knight. 

“Two francs? That will buy you a nice hole!” one such convict responded. “What, your mute bastard could not make your dick rise?”  
“That is none of your business -- so you know of a seller? When and where?”

Go take a look behind the corderie, pick one and I'll close the business. It will cost you one franc.” The old man rubbed his hands, calculating the amount of liquor he could buy with that sum.

One merchant, especially a sou-pinching one, could always read the mind of another like an open book. However, Patou knew he would suffer a far greater loss than one franc if rumors arise of his inability to subdue his knight -- nothing closed deals quicker and more in his favor than fear and intimidation. “Damn it, you son of a bitch,” Patou cursed. “For a franc you better close that deal quickly.”

The next Sabbath after a quick meal he dragged Valjean behind the corderie, a huge structure in which rope was made with heavy machinery. 

Today the walls had a very different look than usual. A row of young convicts leaned against them, out of sight of the guards, caps in hand and sleeves rolled up to reveal as much of themselves as possible. Their knights watched them closely.

"Pick one," Valjean muttered. To him they were all the same, and the act would be shameful no matter who Patou did it with. "I will only pay for a good, juicy one.” Patou responded, “You would not know, you are probably impotent." Valjean shook his head. He could scarcely feel even so fundamental an emotion as anger anymore. Patou walked up to one of his regular customers, greeted him effusively while directing a gaze charged with intent to the weasel in charge of the deal, and a more subtle look toward a young man whose head was grossly crowned by tufts of red hair. 

Valjean was getting tired of waiting back in their usual corner of the mill when the young convict approached with his knight. The older of the pair was an animal broad like a closet and the young man smiled in a way that was intended to be seductive. Patou was already untying his pants when the older held back the younger with a hand on his shoulder. “Patou, everyone knows you are rich. You can pay more.” 

They had reneged on the closed deal and Patou balked. “Why would I pay more for the same service?” he yelled, jabbing a finger into the older convict’s face. “If you pay more, you get more service!” the pimp insisted. To Valjean’s surprise, Patou hesitated. He suspected that the beast wanted very much the slim boy who looked at him with sparkling eyes. 

“Meat and wine also, so you can have a full ten course meal!” Patou said eventually, “Continue to negotiate, and I will show you what meat is, you whore!” The pimp gave Patou a look of contempt but then relented and walked behind the logs. A smile, terrible and monstrous split Patou’s face; he dragged Valjean with him when he followed.

Valjean climbed atop the logs, the splinters from the wood bringing back memories of a time long past, when he thought a man would starve before he sold his dignity. There was a time when he thought that hell was the solitude to which he was doomed, because no woman wanted to become involved with a man with eight mouths to feed; a man who could not give her their own children without condemning them to misery; There was a time when he dreamed of perky breasts and wet mouths, a time in which he cursed to lie alone in his bed of straw, bound to find relief only in his hand. The strength of his arms had been a blessing in his work; now they would be the only thing that would protect him from the beasts that stalked him.

“Treat him well,” the pimp said menacingly to Patou and revealed a shiny object in his hand, “Or this will be the last time you use your dick.”  
“That's not necessary. I am a great lover and I intend to love him every week.”

The young redhead untied the closures in his pants and lowered himself onto all fours behind the wood pile, with his round ass pointing proudly up high. Valjean needed to pretend he was not there but his efforts to remove splinters buried in his hands did not demand enough of his attention. A blush spread on his neck and cheeks. He thought the nights in the Chaîne and Saint-François had taken from him his last shred of modesty, but he was wrong. He tried to get away from the grunts and the seductive moans, but the rhythmic jerking of the chain strapped to his ankle made it impossible to ignore what was happening.

“Ooohhh… Oh, it’s been too long, mute bastard wouldn’t let me…”  
“Fuck him like you want him to have your children! Don’t worry I won’t cut off your dick for that!”

Valjean rubbed his hands vigorously against the grain of the wood under him, until his blood stained the wood. He tried to remind himself there were other things in life aside from basal desires. As Patou's growls increased in frequency, so did his pulls on the chain. Valjean found himself torn between horror and an inexplicable desire to turn his head and look. See what? The brutal and shameless coupling of two animals? No. There were times when a man could sense his own destiny. In Patou, Valjean saw the beast which he will soon become. How much strength would he need to fight the blight around him? For how long could he maintain this strength, when he was powerless even to support his family? He lived among beasts and he was doomed to become one of them.

“Patou, ohhhh Patou!” the young man began to moan breathlessly, his calls of Patou’s name rapidly increasing in both pitch and neediness. Valjean looked over his shoulder: while ramming into the young man Patou had reached around the body he held against his hips to pleasure the young man with firm strokes. Patou noticed Valjean watching and gave him a wink, which made him turn back away in disgust.

By the time Patou sighed in relief and satisfaction Valjean already felt that a part of him was irrevocably lost. His transformation into le Cric had begun. 24601 ceased to be taciturn to become grim; he forgot how to be generous and vowed to survive; he buried his ingenuity in the same place where he had buried his loved ones: in the most hidden part of a heart that had begun to dry.

So ended his first month in Toulon.


	10. A coat no money can buy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers: Thank you for your patience -- we know that the story is taking its time to bring Valjean and Javert together so they could begin to interact. That will begin to happen next chapter, with the full-fledged angst happening at chapter 15. We will post on a faster schedule until 15 to shorten the wait.
> 
> Please keep reading and let us know your comments.

Javert combed the mane of an aging mare with his fingers as he waited; she had pulled the wagon of hammers, nails, and chain links for their arduous eleven hour rush to arrive at Toulon before sunset.  Now having stopped in sight of the familiar large barred gate, she snorted and pawed at the sandy dirt with her hooves, impatient to be freed from her harness.

 

The captain had been engaged in conversation with a bagne guard for a long while now, and though Javert was out of hearing range he knew the routine perfectly well -- the captain always warned the guards of particularly troublesome prisoners, and this time they had just handed over one who bit off the ear of another after a series of incidents.  He knew all the details because he had often reported on the exploits of the convicts the others came to call _le Cannibale_ , and even laughed at a few of the most ridiculous jokes told over dinners.  Another _Chaîne_ successfully escorted to Toulon.  He subconsciously toyed with the ten franc coin in his hand -- this was one he was proud of because he felt that he genuinely made a contribution this time.  This one he will spend.

 

“I must meet an old friend at the _Bagne_ for dinner, Monsieur Javert, and cannot give you your riding lesson tonight,” Thierry said when he returned.

 

“Yes captain,” Javert replied, only slightly disappointed.  He looked up at the sky; the sun had set but there was still light.  Many businesses should still be open.  He walked away from the port and towards the center of the city.  Others guards had long left to go gamble and drink with their new wealth, but he had in mind a different luxury for himself.  

 

Over the past year, he was able to wear old shirts various guards gave to him; the shirts were loose but that was fine, few survived more than a month or two of the constant scrubbing he subjected them to anyway.  But the plentiful food on the _Chaîne_ had finally fueled his growth-spurt, and his current shirt grew tighter and tighter across his chest and shoulders throughout the trip.  With his ten francs, he will go buy himself a tailored shirt.

 

A passing lady grimaced at him when he absent-mindedly scratched an itching armpit.  He hurried faster down the busy street to the clothing store recommended by the cook. A woman raised her hand to her face as he neared, and the man she was with lead her away. Javert felt a blush of embarrassment rise to his face.  How did these people get themselves to smell like flowers?  The only flower he saw on her was the one on her bonnet.  Perhap he should keep wild flowers tucked inside his pockets -- but that would be later, and for now he kept walking.

 

Eventually he came to store with a large sign above the door: _CHEMISIER_.  There was clothing of dark green, gray, blue, all behind the glass; clothing so oddly shaped he could not guess how one would put it on.  He entered.  In the back a tailor was measuring a demoiselle for a new corset, and a stocky, bearded man at the front desk glared at him.  He walked up and asked, mimicking the way the learned men spoke, “Monsieur, can I buy a shirt?”

 

“We don’t do charity here, beggar!”

“I did not come for charity, here is ten _francs_!  Other guards told me this is enough for a shirt.”

 

At the commotion the owner emerged from the back. After a quick glance at Javert, during which his face showed no emotion other than disgust, the older man said, “You need a shirt, waistcoat, and trousers. Choose a fabric for each and we will take measurements.”

 

Javert’s eyes followed the owner’s extended finger to the bewildering rack of colorful patterned cloth.  Summer was ending and newly arrived winter clothing adorned the wall behind the rack. The coats and hats immediately captured his imagination.  How much warmer he would be in one of those coats with so many capes to keep from being drenched when it rained, how much safer from the stones cast by the townspeople at the _Chaîne_!  And how the wool hat that looked just like what the men on the street wore would shield him from the sun.

 

“If you are not here to make a purchase, please leave my store!”

 

“How much coin for this?” Javert hurriedly placed a finger on the sleeve of the coat to make clear his interest.  The material felt warm and soft, as different to the rough wool he felt lucky to wear as night was to day.

 

“Leave, don’t dirty my coats!” the store owner shouted angrily.  “That coat is eighty _francs_!”

 

Eighty francs was a large portion of the amount he had saved in his metal box in over two years.  That money was supposed to pay dowry for a wife, but he did not want a wife.  He wanted to feel warm and safe.  If that costed eighty _francs_ , he would pay it.

 

The owner and an assistant began to wrestle him to the door.  He tried to explain that he will return with eighty _francs_ but they would not listen. After they cast him back out to the street he walked, crestfallen, to find the cook where he knew the man went in search of whores.

 

-

 

“Boy, buy a shirt first,” the cook told him when he mentioned the coat, “I will go with you tomorrow morning. They will sell to me.”  Javert took a seat on the filthy cobblestones and declined the wine offered by the guards.  He held his head in his hands.  No matter how hard he tried, he seemed to always end up in a den with convicts and prostitutes.   _Merde_.  Was this going to be his destiny?  

 

“Look at you, Monsieur, so unhappy!  For ten sous you can hold me in your strong arms --” he swatted away the hand on his sleeve and stood up, intending  to go sleep on the wagons they left near the _Bagne_.  

 

Calls of his name in the dimly lit back alleys stopped him: “Javert? Is Javert here?”

“Yes!” he called back. He recognized that voice; it was another guard on the _Chaîne_.

“The captain wanted to see you for an urgent matter.  Come with me.”

 

He followed the guard out of the alley with a heavy heart.  Did the captain think that he was here with everyone else seeking prostitutes, and was unhappy that he was not practicing his reading instead?  Wasn’t the captain supposed to be at dinner?

 

And yet what the captain told him when he walked up was, “Monsieur Javert, you are about the right age to do such things. I hope I did not interrupt anything.”  Javert blanched at the apologetic tone and quickly attempted to explain, “No, captain, I was not…”

 

Holding up one open hand, Thierry gestured for silence.  “This _Chaîne_ was larger than the _Commissaire_ expected, and a recent outbreak of typhus left many guards indisposed. My friend had to cut the dinner short to go meet with the naval commanders to borrow some men for a few months.”  

 

Javert walked up to Thierry’s horse, confused why he was being told this. “Captain?” he asked, when Thierry paused seemingly to contemplate his wording.  “I convinced him that you already knew a lot of the prisoners from your work on the _Chaîne_ , and despite your lack of military experience you will learn quickly. You will work as an adjutant guard in the Bagne until they no longer need you, possibly for a few months.  Starting immediately. Congratulations.”

 

The hilt of the captain’s dress sword glistened under the street lanterns, and it stung his eyes. He did not comprehend what was happening beyond the obvious, that the captain was abandoning him in the Bagne.  “They should take one of the guards instead,” he suggested, hoping this would make the captain reconsider.  “They are more qualified than me.”

 

“None of them could take the job until they discuss with their families.  This would be an inconvenience for them, but an opportunity for you. You are a hard-working young man and there is no future for you working on the _Chaîne_.”

 

“Thank you, captain,” Javert whispered.  He did not know what else to say.  

 

“Take this with you.  You must continue to learn to read, Monsieur Javert, and there are few books I have on hand at the moment.  You are needed at the _Bagne_ immediately.  Go, and tell the guards at the gate that Thierry sent you.”

 

Javert bowed then turned to leave.  The cook, who had followed him out of the alley and had listened to the entire conversation silently, called out to him: “Leave me the coins, boy, and I will buy your shirt for you, send it into the _Bagne_ for you.”  

 

Javert did not care for the shirt anymore. He kept walking.  When he looked back, the captain had already disappeared amongst the chariots and fiacres on the busy street.  He looked at the heavy tome in his hands under the streetlights.

 

It was a copy of the Pénal Code.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, Javert's Penal Code is the 1791 version.
> 
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Penal_Code_of_1791


	11. Recognition

“2342 is the best fighter on this continent!” shouted Patou in the direction of the stage, where two convicts were engaged in a brutal fight. Waving his arms above his head he gestured for the crowd behind him to join him in his insensible cheers and taunts. “2342 is the most handsome motherfucker in this shit hole! 4590 is so ugly his own mother could not look at him with a straight face!!”

An incongruously calm and measured voice rang up right next to his ear: “You had been riling up the crowd to cheer for your customers in all the bouts,” it commented. He did not need to turn his head to know to whom it belonged. “Yes Mute, why aren’t you helping me?” he hissed.

“Don’t you hate them? Think they are worse than rats?”  
“Yes, yes! But they will be winning rats who will trade their prize grog to me for snuff. At inflated prices! Ugh!” Patou waved his hand dismissively at his knight. Trying to talk sense into that mute bastard was a waste of breath, and his breath was too precious a commodity at the moment. He turned back to the fight and kept yelling. “Punch him in the face! Chase him, grow a pair of legs, will you?!”

The mixed crowd of convicts and guards groaned in sympathy and excitement when 2342 dropped his opponent with a vicious slap across the face. In this fight where only open palms were allowed, this was a gorgeous hit.

“So it is all just business to you,” the calm voice said again.  
“And you, you dimwitted shit, it’s been almost three years that you spent with me and you haven’t learned a thing about how the world works. No wonder you had to steal.” As soon as the words left his lips, Patou regretted it. Wine always made him forget that his knight was the stronger fighter, and sure enough, he felt the formidable physical presence loom over him. Patou sighed in exasperation. The bastard wouldn’t let him watch the fight in peace, and now gets in his face because of an insult? Where was the justice?! “Humph, no, no, you are also the handsomest motherfucker in all of France,” he said in a change of tune, and after that horrible attempt at appeasement, he turned back to the fight to find that the fallen man had gotten up. “Kill him!” Patou screamed, “Make it look like an accident!!”

A lonesome guard stood atop the parapet which overlooked the esplanade, a lean, imposing figure with long hair tied back, the tails of his uniform coat fluttering in the breeze. The joyous occasion did not do anything to change his mood from its usual solemnity, and his gloved fingers tugged absentmindedly at the bottom hem of his uniform. He was once told he would only be needed here for a few months at most. That was over a year ago.

With face angled downwards he looked out into the distance, his gaze locked onto a silhouette against the setting sun and sparkling blood-red sea. That great ship disappearing into the horizon was the recently launched Sparti, and these celebrations were in her honor. Every time a ship-of-the-line was finished, a convict on a life sentence risked his life to remove the last chain anchoring her to shore and set her free. Survive or perish, and almost all perished, the convict was pardoned for that act of bravery. Javert understood a truth the moment he caught sight of the bloodied corpse the guards fished out of the water: In his life he had done nothing which would require a pardon, so no pardon could ever free him from this prison.

He straightened his black hat, making sure that the large silver anchor emblazoned on its front was centered over his brows. Then he turned towards the vast prison yard and used his perfect vantage point to watch the colorful crowd of red and blue. A convict was waving his arms wildly near the stage, in an area suspiciously devoid of blue. A ship launch was one of the very few occasions in the _Bagne_ where the guards celebrated along with the convicts.

Could the convict be planning an escape during this break from the normal routine? A guard could never be too careful.

He cast another look at the ship and stepped down from the parapet, cudgel in hand. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon and in minutes the whistle will sound for the convicts to be herded back into their rooms. He pushed his way through the crowd with his cudgel leading the way; most convicts needed no more incentive to back out of his way, and the others received a tap on the shoulder. Ahead of him, the tall and broad convict was still shouting instructions and gesticulating at the stage, while his knight cheered only when one of the fighters landed a particularly good hit.

There will probably be no riot after all. Javert took a small step to one side to see the stage through the gap between the taller men in front of him, just one of the pair glanced behind his shoulder after he felt a push on his back. Their eyes met. Both hesitated for a moment because they knew they’ve met before.

As the convict turned his head away, the light of the setting sun caught the metal plate on the red cap. Javert read the number on it: 24601.


	12. The distance between them

Thump.

Thump-- thump------

Thump.

Thump-- thump------

Each precise landing of his heels spawned a cascade of lengthening echos which ricocheted down the narrow passage flanked by pristine stone walls, as if gang leader and innumerable minions fled at the sight of their greatest nemesis.

The mighty Javert.

Born to a convict father, abandoned as a child. Defender of the law.

He propelled himself with swift kicks of his long legs as he patrolled with a hardwood cudgel in his right hand, glistening from its fresh coat of oil. If it were his destiny to spend the rest of his life in the company of convicts, he would spend it as their eternal enemy.

BREEEEEEEET!!!

Now a shrill whistle sliced through the putrid air: it was time for him to do his duty. Columns of convicts plodded into the hallway from the courtyard, removing their caps as they approached the guards. He was to make sure any piss or vomit was swiftly cleaned up and any disruptive convicts were beaten into submission -- a thankless task which he strove to complete with exceptional diligence.

Today was his least favorite day of the week: Sabbath; the day when virtually all convicts and many guards took to drinking to pass the hours. He strained his hearing to listen for any signs of irregularity above the vulgar conversations and incessant clang of metal against stone as hundreds of garlands filed down the corridor to the _Saint-François_ room.

Javert anxiously watched the steady flow of bodies and encouraged it onwards using his cudgel every time it halted. Halfway down the corridor he spotted a break in a column -- a body toppled sideways into the wall but was pulled back in a flash. Javert kept his gaze locked so as not to lose the place in the line and walked over to make a closer inspection. An astonishingly drunk convict was being kept precariously upright by his somber knight. Javert took in this rare level-headed convict as the pair passed. This convict was unremarkable in appearance: average height, wide frame, thick arm, matted beard and dirty face. The tufts of hair on his head where auburn and he seemed to be limping heavily; otherwise he was almost indistinguishable from the others. Amidst the shuffle of chained feet Javert caught a glimpse of a badly injured ankle.

He scolded himself for indulging in this distraction and headed back to his post.

That convict which Javert saw, and who he was not able to recognize, was of course 24601. It had been months since these two last noticed each other. This time Javert could not see Valjean’s number and when Valjean looked at the guard moments later all he saw was a face cast in shadow by the protruding visor of the guard’s hat.

In the midst of the tide of chains, Valjean wished that the column would advance faster through the hallway; Sabbaths had not become any easier for him over the years despite the reluctant understanding he now had with his knight. Today Patou dragged him across the prison yard with little consideration for his painfully injured foot and never once uttered an apology for having caused the injury in the first place.

Valjean was sick and tired and could hardly wait to get off his feet.

They were almost to the barred door when suddenly the rattle of the chains became deafening. The noise started at the beginning of the line and was spreading like a wave. A metallic tide of protest. Valjean ventured to poke his head out of the line to see what was happening, but all he was able to discern was that prisoners ahead of them shook the chains in their hands.

When their turn came, Patou put his hands their chain and imitated the others with enthusiasm; Valjean feared that the inebriated windbag would start screaming and readied himself to cover Patou’s mouth if necessary. The guards did not use their cudgels with the accuracy needed to target only one of the components of a _mariage_.

The noise spread behind them as the progression of the column stopped not far ahead: A dark-skinned convict with a wild beard going white halted in front of the guard and furiously shook his chain in the guard’s face.

“This is the _bagne_ , not the _Chaîne_ ,” Valjean heard the guard say in a steely, deep voice. The guard struck the old man in the face with his cudgel and sent him crashing into the wall. A few guards from the _Saint François_ room threw the wooden doors wide open and were almost wrestling convicts into the bedroom. Eager to sink into the oblivion provided by the bed of wood, Valjean pushed the man ahead of him forward. The blows of the guards had begun to fall on the prisoners, but Fortune smiled at him that night: miraculously, none of them reached him.

After dinner Valjean rested his bottom on the _tôlard_ with a sigh of relief. When the whistle sounded for nightly prayer, he took off his hat with all the others and joined his hands so he would appear pious and not bitter. Then he whispered to himself the words which rarely changed: “My God, keep the bile in this son of a bitch's stomach, so I will not be beaten. Allow his business to go well another day, so he will not get into an argument. Make sure he don’t slip again and hurt my other foot. Amen."

When the whistle sounded again he wrapped himself in his blanket and went to sleep.


	13. Undeserved promotion

While Valjean slept soundly chained to his bed, Javert stood at his post on the other side of the doors and suffered the silent fury of his fellow guards for the entire night.  

 

Not long after the incident the well-respected _Chef de Salle_ stationed in the smaller room located on the opposite end of the hallway which housed the unruly and dangerously violent, the _Salle des Indociles_ , strolled past him to the _Saint-François_ room.  

 

“That commotion caused a few of the indociles to act out violently, and one of my men got hurt,” he told the chief who met him at the door, “It must not happen again.”  Javert tried not to spy on the whispered conversation which took place only paces away from him, but human nature compelled him to at least listen for references to him.  

 

When the older chief went back to his room less than a minute later, a guard came out from the _Saint-François_ room and spoke to him.  

 

“Your name, adjutant guard.”  

“Javert,” he answered, and hoped that they only needed his name to include in the report, not for filling out paperwork for his dismissal.  There would be no return to the _Chaîne_ after a dishonorable discharge, and no one would hire a man who was not good enough even for this place where many awaited retirement.  He would once again be homeless.

 

A few days later when he reported to his shift the chief called him aside.  He was handed new orders on a slightly crumpled piece of paper.

 

          Report to new accommodations Guard Room 4.  

          Begin immediately Shift 2, _Saint-François_ Room.

          Report to _Chef de Salle_ Chélan for further orders.

 

This would be the first increase in his responsibilities since his arrival: instead of being an extra pair of hands to help whoever was in need, now he shared responsibility for a room of convicts.  But he felt no joy.

 

“Proceed if you have no questions.”

 

“I apologize for the incident,” he said with his head bowed and his hat in his hands, to no reaction.  It was clear as day to all present at the time that he was the one whose mere presence infuriated the romani prisoners, and though he struck down the perpetrator immediately order was already lost.  He had failed in his duties so why were they granting him more responsibilities instead of less?  The chief tapped his boot on the stone floor impatiently.  

 

“As you order, Monsieur,” Javert said.

 

Javert bowed again and pressed his hat back onto his head, then returned to his room for his belongings.   They were kept on a small wood shelf attached to the wall above the head of his bed, where he slept on a mattress stuffed with horsehair and wool.

 

The items were as follows: One pair of leather shoes, not used since he received boots with his uniform, more worn from the frequent waxing it receives than actual wear. Two sticks of lead, one broken. One worn copy of the _Pénal Code_. One very worn dictionary. One razor for shaving. One nightshirt. One small can of shoe wax. A spare pair of socks.  One pair of black trousers he had long since outgrown.

 

Though he had few belongings he had a small but considerable sum in his name.  All his savings from his work in the _Chaîne_ and here in the bagne including a sizable sign-up bonus were held in an account in the administrative offices.

 

Javert carried everything in one arm and walked down the hallway to his new room. It had only two men in it at the moment, though it contained twenty-four beds.

 

“You are the new man on guard duty in the _Saint-François_ room?” asked one of the two men, both going gray at the temples.  The guards roomed with other men who reported to the same chief, so these two will be his colleagues.  “Adjutant guard Javert, at your service,” he replied.

 

“I am Antoine, but better known as Poches,” the man with neatly-cropped mustache and sideburns introduced himself.  He looked over Javert then murmured appreciatively, “Awfully young to have come from the navy.”

 

“No Monsieur.” Javert answered the same way he had to everyone else who had made the same mistake, which was basically every guard he had exchanged names with: humbly, and with a burning sense of shame.  “I was a water boy on the _Chaîne_ from Paris.”

 

He was lucky today; this man shrugged off this piece of information.  “Ah, that makes more sense.  So what is your name?”

 

“Adjutant guard, Javert,” he repeated for clarification, and looked carefully at the waistcoat and shirt worn by the older man.  He could not see any extra pockets.

 

“I heard you the first time. No one gave you a nickname?  What, did they call you Le Gitan?”

“There is only one name, Javert.”

“You are an odd one. In any case, I am the food-inspector. If you ever want to buy extra rations, find me.”

 

Questions abound in Javert’s mind. Why Poches? Where did the extra rations come from?  But the other man had clearly lost interest in their conversation and he must go report to his new shift.  He arranged his belongings onto the shelf above the nearest unoccupied bed then checked his new mattress for fleas. To him this new shift was a promotion he did not earn.  What must he do to earn the confidence of his new chief?  

 

On the next bed over, the guard who had remained silent the entire time looked at his new neighbor with suspicion then turned back to the letter he was composing.  Javert stood up to leave for the _Saint-François_ room, “Monsieur,” he asked when he walked by Poches, “is there any advice you can give me before I begin my first shift?”  

 

Poches stared at Javert, trying to read the completely innocent expression on his face. “Things around here go for favors, young man. You will learn a lot just by keeping your ears open during meals. We naturally speak of the convicts often.”

 

“Thank you.”  Javert said, and wondered whether agreeing to cover another guard’s shifts counted as the favors he mentioned.  If they were, that was a favor he was more than happy to give.

 

-

 

That night Javert tried to present the best possible appearance when he passed through the wood door into the _Saint-François_ room.  After depositing his rifle on the gun rack in the guards’ waiting room, he entered the bedroom through the large barred door and began his rounds, cudgel in hand.

 

He had missed the beginning of his shift and the bedroom was already under curfew; the convicts slept fifty crammed onto each tôlard like salted herring in a crate of rations.  He diligently counted the convicts as he walked: Ten, eleven, twelve ... forty nine ... where was the missing inmate?  Javert looked back and saw him crouched over the bucket, emptying his bowels. With a grimace of disgust, he headed for the next tôlard.

 

The air was fetid and the supposed silence was in reality a constant hum of snores, grunts, and farts.  One of the prisoners moved his pelvis rhythmically against the back of another convict, but they each were wrapped in their blankets. Javert dropped his stick on the prisoner’s calf as a warning.

 

He paid careful attention to the chains at the convict’s feet as he walked, to make sure nothing was broken.  Eventually he came across a convict who was sound asleep with his entire body and half of his face tucked neatly inside his blanket.  No tangle of limbs and lewd movements like so many of the others.  This was as a hard worker should be on a Saturday night -- completely exhausted at the end of a week.  The chain protruding from the blanket led to a metal plate which read: 24601.  He moved on.

 

On a tôlard along the other wall there was again one prisoner missing.  Javert looked around the brightly-lit surroundings and did not see any prisoners away from the tôlard, but on second look he discovered that several of the prisoners occupied more space than was allocated to them.  He pushed and shoved the bodies with his nightstick until all the convicts returned to their places.  The metal plate which was unaccounted for betrayed the identity of the missing convict: 90098.  

 

Javert’s heart pounded against his chest but he saw that none of the other guards acted like anything was wrong.  How did a convict chained to the _tôlard_ manage to disappear without being noticed?  If the convict had disappeared before he was chained for the night, wouldn’t other guards have seen that he was missing during their rounds also?   He walked with secure and firm step back to the guard room, to report to the _Chef de Salle_.

 

“90098 was disrespectful to Le Gros, and is spending the night in a cachot,” his new chief Chélan answered matter-of-factly.  Upon hearing this, all tension bled from Javert’s face.  Yes, the cachots -- he had heard other guards speak of the solitary confinement rooms in the basement before.  He bowed his head and went back to his rounds.  Later in the night he found out that Le Gros was the nickname for one of the guards, François.  

 

The next morning he fell asleep with his copy of the regulations of the _Bagne_ still open in his lap.  He resolved to learn quickly so he would not lose his composure the same way again.

 

 


	14. Vomit worth five francs

The sky ruptured above Toulon during this autumn dawn, spilling over the _bagne_ big drops of icy fury that came together to form rivulets which, like a huge spider web, roamed the yard and let down from the rooftops.

 

Fortunately it was Sunday; to the inhabitants of the ominous buildings it was a relief to sit inside the bedroom or wander amongst the _tôlards_ , instead of being exposed in the open.  If it were any other day they would have to work until the whistle, their bodies pierced by the cold and their soaked smocks stuck to their skins, before they could huddle in the warm embrace of their filthy blankets.  

 

This afternoon the heavily regulated bedroom seethed with noise and activity as men accustomed to the outdoors were forced to remain inside and let time pass.  Some prisoners took advantage of the day off to try to sleep, others mended their clothes; the most industrious were busy making small items to sell to the tourists visiting the bagne’s bazaar.  Valjean watched those convicts with dismay whenever Patou happened to stop near one to negotiate a sale, because only then could he take his eyes off his injured ankle for a moment without fear.  During his first months in the _Bagne_ he tried his hand at wood carving but had quickly given up after multiple failures; none of the _eprouvré_ sellers thought what he made was worth taking into the bazaar.  It would have been an honest way to earn money but in this case Patou was right -- this type of thing was meant for artists and he wasn’t one.

 

Patou, in his own way a tireless worker, had spent much of the day engaged in his trafficking of small objects: scraps of metal, lock picks, strings, tobacco. He hid his merchandise inside a stained pig bladder strapped to his thigh, which he could reach with only the most minute of movements of a single hand.   Bored convicts were, in general, large consumers of snuff and alcohol, and they bought out Patou’s entire stock of consumables by late afternoon.  Unable to satisfy his lust for his favorite prostitute, Patou went on to become a blattering and extremely drunk man.

 

The always taciturn Valjean had earned a reputation as a man of extraordinary strength; moreover, it was well known that not even the strong and perverted Patou had managed to tame him.  To Patou’s customers he was an enigma, a constant intimidating presence, a veiled threat to potential defaulters.  In reality he acted only in self defense.

 

This day of confinement was far easier on the guards than for those under their watch; an abundance of wine fueled constant jokes and constant laughter the entire afternoon on the other side of the barred door.  Now one of the guards, Poches, approached them and Valjean cleared his throat to alert his knight.

 

Poches held his cudgel nonchalantly, swinging it like a toy.  "Chatting with buddies, 4607?" he asked.

In response, Patou took off his cap and bowed his head.

 

"Want to make some easy money?” Poches said offering a conciliatory smile. "Come on, you can talk."

Patou peered at the guard with understandable suspicion. "How much, how, when?" he demanded.

 

"Tonight we have an initiation. I am shopping for a bout of projectile vomit.  Five _francs_.”

“Another new guard?” Patou asked, not quite drunk enough to say no to a business opportunity.

"Yes, a real pain in the ass. I want a first rate job."

"Six _francs_ , and meat, and all the liquor I can drink!"

Poches generously accepted Patou’s counter offer with only one correction: "Not liquor, that does not stain enough. Red wine.”  When Patou accepted the deal, Poches leaned towards 24601 and took a sniff.  “For this to be believable 24601 also needs to appear drunk,” the guard said.  He scratched his chin thoughtfully and looked at Valjean’s swollen, festering ankle.  “24601, how about you make sure the gypsy can’t dodge the vomit, for clean cloths to wrap your ankle and a leather _patarasse_ to protect it?”

 

Valjean hesitated for only a moment -- he saw that Patou actually looked jealous of the offer he was given, and he feared that if the wound was left untreated it would render him permanently disabled.  What did it matter to him what happened to any of those animals dressed in blue?  He gave the guard a single nod in agreement.

 

With a wave of his cudgel, Poches led them into the boiler room where several _eprouvés_ were scrubbing the giant pots used to cook beans.  They looked surprised and stepped aside.

 

"You, bring a bottle of red wine for 4607,” Poches snapped at one of them, “and a cup of _eau de vie_ for 24601.”

 

Patou dispatched his bottle in a few minutes, while Valjean was left to stare skeptically at a cup full of unpleasant-smelling clear liquor.

 

"So what are you waiting for, 24601?” Poches pushed the cup with his cudgel, causing the edge to crash into Valjean’s teeth.  “Don’t want your leather _patarasse_?"

 

Valjean shrugged and drained half a cup quickly. His throat burned as tears threatened to spill down his cheeks.

 

“Remember to wait for me to send the guard to you -- It will be obvious,” Poches said, delivering the final instructions.  “Don’t vomit on the wrong one or you both go straight to the _cachots_!  Well now, hurry on along!”

 

\---

 

Patou spent that entire dinner speculating on just which guard it would be in a slurred, drunken, nonsensical rant.

 

“That one, that one, newly weaned!” he said, gesturing at a guard who had just arrived and was reporting to duty on the other side of the barred door.  “Nice ass!” he described enthusiastically, then spread his open palms far apart to gesture a length before the words tumbled out from his lips: “Looooong hairr.”

 

“They are paying you to vomit on the guard,” Valjean responded dismissively, “Not to mount the guard, horny bastard.”  In his entire life the only alcohol he drank was red wine, and always as part of a meal.  The potent liquor he took on a empty stomach was quickly going to his head with devastating effect.  He kept seeing before his eyes the little figurines one of the convicts carved from walnuts earlier that day, and felt that familiar sinking emptiness at the pit of his stomach which no amount of oily beans could adequately fill.  They had beaten out of him even the modicum of dignity to try once before deciding something was impossible.

 

Patou elbowed him in the arm, apparently still ranting about the same guard.  “Look Mute. That kid.”  

 

At his insistence, Valjean looked at the guard who now stood against the wall -- one he would not describe as burly but who was definitely well-built, and whose erect posture gave him an aura of menace.  Definitely not the type Patou usually liked.  Perhaps Patou realized the same thing, because he scrubbed at his squinting, watery eyes for a moment, while his body swayed unsteadily to and fro, and mumbled, “but… his hole probably not for sale...”

 

Valjean looked away from the guard and snickered under his breath. “Motherfucker, you're always thinking the same thing.  Stop dreaming and keep eating or he will be all over you with his cudgel.”

 

Patou gave the cudgel and Valjean long, quizzical looks.  “You make a penis joke, Mute?” he asked finally.  

 

Valjean smiled, but the lopsided smile looked more like a grimace.

 

After they returned the dirty dishes Valjean led Patou straight to their spots on the tôlard.  Poches had been paying attention to them, and surely he noticed that Patou was becoming green in the face.

 

“Javert!  4607 looks about to vomit, get him to do it in the bucket! Christ, this room will reek of vomit the entire night.”  

 

The guard Patou raved about earlier stepped forward from the wall and acknowledged with a crisp, “Yes, Monsieur.”

 

An overjoyed Patou eagerly latched onto the man as soon as he came close enough, and even reached around around to grab at the black ponytail.  Did that beast Patou have a hair fetish because he had lost his own?  When Javert took his eyes off them for a moment to remove the lid from the bucket, an impatient Valjean jabbed a finger into to hollow of Patou’s throat to hurry this sordid affair along.  

 

The vomit gushed forth onto the fistful of hair Patou clutched in his hand, and then went everywhere.  When the guard turned to look it was too late, the front of his uniform and especially the white straps across his chest were already stained dark red and dotted with undigested beans.

 

A few retaliatory strikes from the victim, delivered with either cudgel or fist, that was understood to be part of the price.  Valjean braced himself now but a surprising lack of emotional outburst followed.  This guard Javert only muttered a “Damn you!”, the tone conveying disappointment more than anger, and his back was not quite as proud, not quite as straight when he shoved Patou’s face over the bucket.

 

Javert removed his right glove and quickly brushed off some of the dripping vomit with his fingers.  Then he turned and left for the barred door.  Valjean thought himself to be a very lucky man.

 

“Don’t come near me, you stink!”

“You are dripping onto my boots, get out of here!”

 

The guard’s room on the other side of the bars erupted with laughter and teasing comments, in contrast to the shocked silence which fell on the bedroom.  Eventually the chief, Chélan, ordered the guard away: “Go clean yourself, do not stink up this entire hallway.”

 

Thundering footsteps echoed down the corridor, surely because that guard had fled the scene.  Now where was the _patarasse_?

 

 


	15. Inability to communicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The central relationship begins now. Enjoy. We will take a break from posting to rest and to gauge reader response. Thank you.

Patou spat the last of his vomit into the bucket and lifted his head.  “That good... guards will be satisfied,” he said with a dreamy smile.  Valjean shrugged with genuine indifference.  He could hardly wait to walk pain-free, and the leather patarasse should last long enough for his ankle would never again be sliced open by the metal cuff until his release.  

 

They were escorted through the barred door, where some eprouvés were busy wiping vomit off the ground, and once again into the boiler room.  There, an _eprouvé_ handed Valjean a dish towel, along with a bar of soap and a bowl of drinking water.  Valjean pulled the stumbling Patou with him to a corner where they could both sit out of everyone’s way, and began to thoroughly scrub away the pus and dried blood from his ankle.  The tight-fitting cuff made this difficult, but he knew none of the guards standing nearby would agree to unlock it even for a minute.  

 

Only steps away from him, many guards were still laughing.

 

“I wish I could be back in the bedroom now,” said one voice which Valjean recognized as Poches’. “Javert must be hiding underneath his blanket after he realized that we took all his clothes.”

 

“No, Poches, he will be cowering under his blanket in the convict smock I replaced his uniform with,” responded a different voice.  Valjean glanced up and saw that the speaker was a guard with a large, round belly.

 

“What?  You did that?” Poches asked, a disbelieving smile on his face.  He shook his head.  “You better be careful when you go back to the room after this shift then.  He might be very angry.”

 

Valjean turned back to his ankle and let out a soft snort of disdain.  He had agreed to help out because he had seen guards do this to newcomers many times before, and thought it to be a harmless prank.  This conversation clearly told a different story: those bastards were out to humiliate one of their own.  He kept at his task to take full advantage of the precious bar of soap in his hand, grateful that Patou was too drunk to move about and make things more difficult.

 

The teasing got worse when a guard was let into the room carrying a wet uniform -- hat, jacket, pants, and boots.  

 

“I say that the gypsy is wearing the wrong uniform, isn't he?  Bet you ten _francs_ he will wear that red smock for real within a year.”

 

"I do not like that guy but a year is too soon,” said Poches. “Scum like them need time to find their place.  Remember how he asked about the convict in the cachot like being nosy was part of his duty?  Actually, Chélan, did you hear back from Solitaire?”

 

Valjean secured his new leather patarasse around his wrapped ankle and slid the cuff until it settled over the center of the leather strip in a tight fit.  The stiff leather hurt his wound tremendously but that will pass.  He washed his hands and face with the bloody, dirty water just as the chief responded: “No, I heard nothing.”

 

A series of loud knocks interrupted everyone in their thoughts.  A deep voice, strained and weary, sounded through the closed door.  

 

“Adjutant-guard Javert, returning for duty.”

 

Incredulous glances flew from guard to guard.  “How can he be back, don’t we have his uniform?” came the obvious question.

 

“Yes!” insisted the fat guard.  He pointed at the still dripping uniform drying next to the boiler.  

Valjean was pleased to watch these wretches suffer from a spectacular blunder entirely of their own making, for justice such as this was a rare occurrence in this prison.  Eventually a guard left to open the door and, moments later, a shivering figure appeared in the doorway.  

  

This guard Javert was clad in nothing but a dripping-wet linen shirt which clung to his chest, virtually transparent; he clutched in his fists a bedsheet sloppily wrapped around his waist, and which dragged on the stone behind him like the train of a layered dress.  Valjean had little doubt that should one of the guards reach for the sheet and give it a firm tug, this young man would have left himself standing practically naked in the middle of a malicious crowd, all for the sake of his duty.  And Valjean was astonished: although he had wrapped his mind in a cloak of cynicism to protect his innocent understanding of the world, all he saw before him was a fellow man.  He now felt a twinge of guilt pierce through that impenetrable cloak, for the part he played in the humiliation of this man.

 

“If you have a problem with me, Messieurs, either have me dismissed from duty or wait until my shift is over,” Javert declared to the guards in the room through clenched teeth, his voice shaking from the cold and his tone icy.  Valjean sat arrested by the face which he saw now unobstructed by the constant presence of the hat and tall collar -- it was undeniably masculine, with chiseled cheekbones and wide jaws which were equally well-defined under sparse whiskers, strong features befitting the strong personality.  

 

The youthful and alert eyes darted quickly and purposefully around the room until it fell on the uniform next to the boiler and then on the fat guard François, who was closest to it.  The guards moved quickly to block Javert from reaching his uniform.  “This one sure does not know how to take a joke,” they said, and, “Relax!  You are supposed to be hiding in your bed for the night.”

 

Valjean watched as Javert, with hurt and anguish now written plainly over his face, squared his broad, straight shoulders and declared, “I would go inside and finish my shift in this sheet, but that would be against regulations.”  Valjean closed his eyes for a moment to the deep, rich timbre of the voice, and was surprised when it made his heart tremble.  When the guards barked their laughter Jean le Cric felt a painful indignation; when Javert left his hand outstretched and demanded the return of his uniform in silence, his confidence and arrogant innocence cut Valjean’s breath.  

 

The tense standstill was broken only when more knocks sounded on the door.  A flustered, panting guard ran straight to Chélan and whispered something into the chief’s ear.  “Have him take care of it.”  Chélan’s chilling response made all the playfulness evaporate.

 

François flung the uniform into Javert’s face and left the room cursing under his breath.  Javert did not seem to care; he picked up his uniform pants and gave them a shake to clear away some of the water and straighten the fabric a bit, then he shuffled to the opposite corner from the two staring convicts and unwrapped the bedsheet to put them on.

 

Le Cric’s usually impassive cheeks were scalded when he realized from the way Javert wrestled with the wet fabric that those pants must have been tight even when dry; he felt like a voyeur when the shirt became stuck to the form and flesh between the guard’s legs.  The young man was not attempting to show off his lean but muscular body -- in fact he seemed ashamed to be half-dressed in public -- but this modesty only captivated Valjean even more.  A mighty, strange mixture of feelings that he had thought dead and buried under the stone gravel of Toulon stirred inside him, wild and incomprehensible.  

 

When Javert finally laid eyes on him, he saw that they were long and slender, almost feline in shape, with pupils the color of the sky on a stormy afternoon; he could see in them the pale blue struggling to break through gray clouds.  Jean le Cric surprised himself when he wondered whether it would be possible to lay his hands on the young, strong shoulders before him and make the light of those cold eyes soften for him, just for a moment.  He could then explain how tired he was, how much his enforced stay with men who had ceased to be thinking beings was corroding his bones. Those eyes would smile for him, and Jean Valjean would be alive, free of the dirt that had darkened his soul for years.  

 

He moved aside to yield the space next to the boiler when Javert approached, hands rubbing his arms and chest to generate warmth, shivering even more violently now after he put on the wet uniform.  He opened his mouth to invite the guard to sit for a while, to warm up before returning to patrol, but stopped himself when he remembered his place.  A convict was not allowed to speak to a guard unless first spoken to.  A convict must remove his cap in the presence of the guards as a sign of respect.  A convict must not make eye contact with a guard.  This left him without any means to communicate not only his need, but also his remorse.  He did not know that his chest could hold such powerful emotions still, after carefully ignoring them for years in his quest to survive.    

 

“You done?” a guard asked, and he must toss his dreams aside and immediately go support Patou, so his drunken knight would not provoke a beating for them both.  He felt a wave of relief when Javert watched his departure with no hostility; the eyes stayed on his hands balled into a fist, then dropped to rest on the ankle newly wrapped in bloodstained cloth, peaking out from under the _patarasse_.  He would pray tonight that Javert saw enough to understand why he agreed to participate in the cruel joke, and would forgive him.

 

He spent most of that night awake, stealing glances at the guard who paced continuously along the _tôlards_ even after his body first succumbed to sneezes, then to coughs.  He wished that it was the body of this guard pressed up against him on the _tôlard_ , instead of the two beasts he had as neighbors.  Then Jean Valjean would be free to watch over him through the night.

 

He watched until he finally placed the face in his memory: this was the boy he misrecognized as his nephew only a few years ago.  That boy had grown into a man.  And he, Jean Valjean, had become a beast who would insult a man for a piece of cloth and a strip of leather.  He closed his eyes even though sleep would not come, because his gaze was dirtying the young man far more than Patou’s vomit.

 

For Javert, one final disappointment ended his nightmarish shift: he was told to stop inquiring about 90098 because the convict had died in the _cachots_.  

 

 


	16. A routine beating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mesdames, Mesdemoiselles, Messieurs please join us in a warm welcome for the villain of this era, Chef de Salle Solitaire

Valjean had hoped it was all a fever dream somehow induced by the noxious liquid they forced on him. Maybe it was Poches’ plan all along for one part of the garland to vomit on Javert and the other part to act out on inappropriate emotions. Wouldn’t that be exactly what those animals would consider a prank, and, more importantly, why else would he, Jean Valjean, have those feelings for a guard? A guard in Toulon, of all people?

But over the past few days he watched Javert work through sickness the same way he did rain or shine, Sabbath or not. His guilt had been assuaged somewhat by the fact that Javert seemed to have recovered from the cold quickly. Not even a week had passed since the guard transferred into the _Saint-François_ , and yet some things do not require more time than that to confirm; a day, a night, that was enough.

Those feelings were real, and they have entered his mind to stay.

Javert patrolled the portion of the ship’s deck he was assigned diligently, constantly on the look-out for convicts who were idling. Many were. He struggled to decide when to order, when to reprimand, when to strike with his cudgel. He was trying far harder to be a guard than the last one who watched them, a near-sighted and irascible sadist.

These thoughts stewed over days into anger as Valjean trudged along, forced to slow down and work at a pace not limited by the pain in his ankle, but a fear that any further trauma would leave chronic problems. Patou led the way while they carried a bundle of wooden rails across the deck, and as they passed behind Javert, Valjean saw that the guard was flustered and quickly losing his patience.

Javert had just hit a robust young convict over shoulder for what seemed to Valjean like the fourth time in an hour, and now lifted the convict’s chin with the end of his cudgel to ask sharply, “How long does it take to hammer in a nail?!” Le Cric’s inability to comprehend added fire to his anger: why did such a hard-working and courageous young man choose to earn his living as a guard? Javert could simply walk out of this cursed shipyard and declare that he would not take any more abuse; he could go out into the city of Toulon and keep himself fed without inflicting pain on his fellow men. Years ago Jean Valjean was forced to steal to keep eight others fed, but even then the only thing he caused damaged to was a window pane.

The unmistakable sound of a pair of boots approaching on the wooden deck made Valjean lower his head. A soothing baritone voice said, “Javert, that is your name, correct?”

Valjean risked a furtive glance and saw that the voice came from the chief known as Solitaire. “Yes, Monsieur,” Javert said, standing at attention.

The chief took his time to respond. “Since I stopped by yesterday, I see that only four new planks were added to this section of the hull. That is not acceptable.”  
“I will do better, Monsieur.”

Valjean imagined bitterly how Javert intended to do better. By beating them harder? Beat all the convicts indiscriminately and hope that more work would get done in consequence? Soon his young impressionable mind will grow so familiar with this action of beating a convict that his arm would itch when used for any other purpose. Familiarity will become pleasure, until he confuses his duty with this impulse to exercise his power. Then it will not only be beatings, it will be extortion --

A dull thud followed by a choked scream made Valjean look again. A convict writhed, cradling his midriff, at Solitaire’s boots, and the chief was laughing under his breath -- private, sardonic, only a dark murmur, and precisely for this reason more audible. When he spoke again, the meaning behind the words rendered his soothing baritone harsh and discordant.

“I am afraid you do not understand how to discipline these lazy dogs. Who is the biggest trouble maker?”

“Not the one you just kicked, Monsieur,” Javert said, his eyes still on the fallen convict. The chief was already on his way to another sluggish convict and Javert hurried to keep up. “That one, 34237. It takes him minutes to hammer in one nail. I have been hitting him every time I pass.”

“Then you do not hit correctly.”  
Patou hastened his pace to get them out of the way as Solitaire strolled over to the convict with Javert in tow. 34237 cast himself at the chief’s feet and begged for mercy, his voice shaking, but it was too little, too late. Solitaire had already made up his mind. “Minutes to hammer in a nail. This one will work twice as fast bruised like an overripe plum.”

Solitaire lifted the bottom of the convict’s smock using this cudgel and inspected the scarred skin underneath, then he did the same with the convict’s sleeves. Valjean watched as revulsion crept up his throat. Returning the business end of the cudgel to the caress of his gloved hand and with a chilling smirk on his face, Solitaire asked the novice guard behind him: “Were you not explained how to use a cudgel?”

“I must have done it wrong, Monsieur, but I don’t know --” Javert said, mortified. Valjean clenched his teeth -- he would go slap some sense into Javert if not for the prudence, the self-defensive instincts which he had acquired over countless beatings. Only a hard tug by Patou on the wood they held made Valjean aware of the fact that he stood rooted in place, his arms gripping on to the wood so hard he could easily snap the rails in half.

"I am sure you have heard the lecture before, but since theory is sometimes insufficient I will give you a practical demonstration." With a boot right in the center of the convict’s back, Solitaire shoved the convict face down into the deck with a sickening thud. “Good use of your cudgel is an important skill. Pay attention,” he said, then brought his cudgel down hard across the struggling convict’s upper back. 34237’s face slammed into the deck once more from the force of the blow.

“Never strike through the bone, that will cause a break,” Solitaire said, relishing every strike as he swung again and again. “A clean strike will not draw blood.” This was not the type of beating streetgangs doled out, no, the goal of this exercise was to inflict pain, not damage.

Javert watched this masterful demonstration stoically, and paces away from where he stood, Valjean rooted himself against Patou’s increasingly desperate attempts to keep him moving. He was thrown into a state of melancholy because he saw before him a scene all too familiar to the pruner who once lived in Faverolles: a seedling transplanted with poor judgment, into a location where it’s potential was squandered by starvation from both water and sunlight. To him Javert had always been a juvenile oak tree; his mind had made this association instinctively perhaps in an attempt to find redeeming traits in this guard. But the falls of the cudgel made him understand that nothing good could grow in the toxic soil of the _Bagne_ ; even if something did, its trunk would be hollow and its leaves black. This oak could not grow rugged branches to serve as walking sticks for the traveler; it will never have a chance to develop a dense and wide crown able to offer protection on a rainy evening. It will never grow into the majestic tree it was meant to be.

34237 screamed until his voice became hoarse but, when Solitaire decided the beating was over and ordered him back to work, he was able to crawl back up with help from his knight and grasp his hammer. The inmate’s spirit was completely shattered and his arm shook so that half of his attempted swings hit only air. Nonetheless he worked more quickly and, more importantly no one, not even the convicts managed by the other guards, wanted to give Solitaire any reason to stay longer before he returned to the cachots. Everyone worked as quickly as they can, until the devastated Valjean almost looked slow in comparison. As far as the guards were concerned, the brutal display was a resounding success.  
“See that the attitude improves. I will come back to check on progress before your shift is over, Javert.”

After the chief had gone Javert imitated Solitaire’s initial action and took a careful look at the convict’s back. 34237 cowered and wept, but that neither made his assured movements more gentle nor more rough. The pattern of bruises quickly turning the back an angry, stormy purple, and Javert said in a steely tone, “Keep working so no more time will be lost to beatings, 34237.”

Valjean felt the eyes on him, but never dwelling for long. In Toulon the only attention a convict could hope to receive from a guard came in the form of a beating, and the best thing he could be in Javert’s eyes was 24601: one fewer convict to worry about.


	17. Acceptance and Denial

After that day everything settled back into the normal routine for weeks, at least for Valjean.  

 

He went back to work rarely lifting his head high enough to tell the difference between one guard and another.  If Javert was bound to become just like the rest of them and there was nothing he, Jean Valjean, could do to change this fact, he would at the very least spare himself the agony of witnessing the slow death of the only good thing he had found in Toulon.  Sooner or later there will come a day when he could not bear to keep his head down any longer, and he will find that all the guards were identical just like before, and that there was no trace left of the young man he remembered every night he laid down on the _tôlard_ and closed his eyes.  With the way Javert asked about everything and stayed beyond his shift to watch the other guards, this would not take long at all.  

 

This was the case until one Sabbath afternoon; all of a sudden Patou was not eager to feast on his meal of meats, cheese, and wine, or to drag Valjean along on his usual sexual escapades.  Instead they spent the first part of the afternoon near all the crowds in the yard, with Patou restless but not attempting to push any sales.

 

When Patou looked behind his shoulder for the third time, Valjean intuited why.  “What did you sell this time?” he asked in annoyance, because Patou must have sold shoddy metal to a convict and expected retribution.  

 

“Inept bastard failed in his escape attempt and now that he came out of the _cachots_ he blames me!” Patou said, and he actually looked nervous.  A string, a screw, almost anything could be relied on in an escape attempt, but as Valjean thought back over the sales of the past few days, he knew there was only one way for Patou to anger a customer into an assault: “The lockpick?  You sold a shoddy -- ”

 

A pair of convicts ran up to Patou from behind and gave him a shove.  It was only due to Patou’s alertness that he was able to dodge the brunt of this initial attack, otherwise he would already be on the ground, with the chain ensuring that Valjean followed right behind.  “That lockpick, you cocksucker, you are going to snap in half like that lockpick!” declared the absolutely furious convict.  Patou was able to rely on his brute strength to push them back and possibly keep them back for a while.  

 

Valjean was happy to stand off to the side and stay out of this as long as they do not attack him first.  If he looked innocent enough he might be able to avoid the bastonade, and maybe this time Patou will finally learn some scruples, though he doubted it.

 

While Patou defended himself skillfully against the combined assault of both members of the garland, the first of the guards began to arrive after forcing their way through the crowd.  Inexplicably, the most senior of the bunch blocked all attempts at intervention, and the small gathering of guards settled down next to Valjean as fellow spectators. They were up to no good as usual and Valjean felt incredibly out of place standing with them as opposed to fighting next to Patou.  

 

Meanwhile, Patou had gained the upper hand against his opponent and was landing solid punches, but Valjean could tell that he was also beginning to tire. Perhaps once they get Patou pinned on the ground the fight will cease to entertain the guards and they will finally put an end to it.

 

Then several things happened almost at the same time: Valjean saw a sudden movement -- a pointy weapon in the hand of one of the convicts -- and heard a command thunder forth from somewhere right next to him; “Drop the weapon!”  He turned to the voice -- everyone did -- and saw a flash of deep blue as a guard sprinted up and struck down the hand wielding the weapon.  The guard threw himself between the combatants without stopping to ask questions and Valjean felt something tighten in his chest.

 

That was Javert, and he had just exposed himself to danger because he erroneously assumed that he had his colleagues’ support.  What if they had come with more than one weapon?  Valjean grabbed the closer of the two convicts by the collar and attempted to wrestle him down, despite knowing that none of the inmates were crazy enough to face the guillotine for injuring a guard.  He hoped that they bought whatever weapons they had from Patou also, crappy weapons which would sooner crumble into pieces than pierce flesh.

  
After Javert and Patou together quickly rendered the other convict unconscious, the guards swamped in at Dijon’s comment made at ear-popping volume: “I’ve seen enough!!” Valjean winced; sometimes he wondered whether the guard screamed every word out of spite because he wanted everyone else to also become deaf.

 

Dijon delivered his orders as if he had found his lost competence in the settling dust: “Adjutant guard, _Bastonade_ for 39478 and 28312.”  

“Yes Monsieur,” Javert acknowledged, taking the initiative even though the order could have been meant for any of the other adjutant guards in attendance.  

  
Javert placed his boot over the sharpened nail on the ground and stepped down.  It shattered with an audible crunch.  Valjean saw that a pleased smile broke the usual gloomy expression on Javert’s face and this sent his heart roaring into flight once more, before it had time to settle from the surge of adrenaline.  What sort of insane man would reserve his only smile in weeks for a weapon he had just placed his body in front of?  

 

The convicts were led away by Javert, both of them still cursing at Patou.  Soon afterwards the remaining guards departed in one big group, as if they had not noticed that there was a second garland involved in the fight they just saw.  

 

Valjean was baffled and shocked by what just happened.  Next to him Patou was hunched-over and winded, but even the instigator of this entire event had found a reason to laugh.  “That’s right!  Toss them back in the _cachots_ and keep them locked so long they will regret not buying another lockpick from me!” he wheezed as he gave Valjean’s thigh a celebratory slap.  “Isn’t that right, Mute?” he asked.  

 

What was so damned funny?

 

Nothing, really, because Valjean had every reason to be worried.  He knew that he would not want Javert to suffer a long and agonizing death from Tetanus after being stabbed with a rusty nail.  He was no more than a beast of burden and his wishes had never mattered to anyone, but even animals were capable of feeling pain, to rebel against it.  Now perhaps his attempt to help the guard had been too obvious to go unnoticed by the rest of the spectators; if that was the case, both of them would soon be in serious trouble. This was not funny at all.  This was infuriating.  

 

But then again -- Valjean scratched his beard thoughtfully -- if his knight had sold weapons of equally dubious quality for all these years, there was no need to fear for Javert’s safety.  At last he had managed to find something good in Patou’s shady business: one day Patou will finally be recognized by his peers as the greatest saboteur in the _bagne_.  

 

Thinking back to the smile on the young guard’s face, Valjean smiled this time.  Soon this uncorrupted young guard would live only in his thoughts; he was no stranger to loss and this will only be one more.  Then Javert would be his and his only, safe in his memory; he would be free to savor his company without fear of inquiring eyes.  Time, that greatest of thieves, will eventually rob him of what even the chains of the _bagne_ could not reach, dissolving away this memory down to a precious few of the most cherished moments.  If he could be lucky, perhaps the one he just experienced would be one of them.  

 

“I know now, it is your sweat which rusted all the metal,” Valjean said to his knight.  “You should drink more.”  

 

\---

 

Javert urged the two crestfallen convicts ahead of him to move quickly in the direction of the _cachots_.  

He could hear Dijon’s voice still ringing in the distance and this caused some degree of unease.  Why had they refrained from ending the fight?  Why punish only these two convicts, not the other two?  Surely it was because of a regulation he did not know, but that was not at all surprising: Javert was aware that he still had much to learn.  

 

He recognized that other garland easily; 4607 was the drunkard who left the red wine stains he had to scrub for hours before making them disappear completely from his jacket, and 24601...  Memories of that prank made him feel uncomfortable again.  The vomit was nothing -- he had suffered far worse on the _Chaîne_.  He saw that they had left him a convict’s smock and he overheard some of the hateful gossip about how he would sooner or later end up in one, but that too was nothing.  He had always known that his life was a quest for survival against a roaring current, without a sail to harness the power of any favorable wind; the only hope was to propel himself ceaselessly, tirelessly with a paddle.  Any lapse would lead to a crash.  The crash would be that red smock.  He did not need anyone else to remind him of this.  He tried to use all of this as motivation, to try harder to better himself.  Now the hurt he felt was buried and exhaustion finally caught up with him after a few weeks on little sleep.

 

The only part of the prank which bothered him still was the behavior of the convict 24601.

 

24601 had stared at him with a piercing gaze, as if even his wet shirt was one layer of clothing too many.  Was that part of the prank?  If it was, then 24601 was a supremely gifted actor and at least one of the guards wasted too much time on a prank -- because 24601 watched him that way for many days, with almost laudable persistence, before stopping all of a sudden.  When it stopped, he felt its absence even more acutely than he did its presence, and he remained agitated all the same.  So in reaction he began to watch 24601 more closely than he should, at least for a convict who had no history of causing trouble.  He wondered whether 24601 was serving time for rape or sexual assault, because those were common crimes, but 24601 was one of the few convicts who always kept to himself every night.  But then, if it was not about something sexual, what was it?  Was it a form of disrespect for a convict to take interest in a guard?  No?  Yes?  He wasn’t able to find any information about this in the regulations.  

 

This was something which was in the past.  The convict stopped doing it.  Why was he still wasting time thinking about it?

 

Upon their descent into the dungeon, the garland marching ahead of him became distressed as anticipated.  Soon one of them began to slow, throwing glances in every direction to search for an escape; Javert promptly drove the tip of his cudgel between the convict’s shoulder blades to dissuade him from having any stupid ideas.

 

A self-assured voice, seemingly out of nowhere, spoke close to his ear.  "Again these two imbeciles.  What have they done this time?"

Javert stood at attention.  No need to turn and look to know that was the _Chef de Salle_ Solitaire.

"Assault on other inmates, Monsieur --,” Javert paused for a moment, and he hoped that this would not come across as hesitation, "39478 was in possession of a weapon and intended to use it."

"Well, adjutant guard,” Solitaire said, seeming to study him for a moment, "What is your name?"

"Javert, Monsieur."

"Oh yes, Javert.  You can return to your shift."

Javert nodded and walked to the entrance to sign the record sheet, little aware that Solitaire's gaze followed him as he walked back out into the sunlight.  He still had hours left in his shift and must cease those distracting thoughts.

 

At least by paying special attention to 24601 he was able to spot a fight -- when he saw the guards walk in that direction he took a second look.  He wasn't distracted.  He was only being alert.  Being alert was part of a guard’s duty.  He sprinted over not because he wanted 24601 to look at him that way again -- No.  He was only doing his duty.

  
In fact, he thought, suddenly very pleased with himself: that was very well done.  

 


	18. A prayer to God

For both Jean le Cric and Patou the following few days were uneasy: the guards, especially François, watched them with more interest than usual.

That day after Javert lead the two prisoners away Dijon had combed his mustache while one of the younger guards shouted into his ear: “We already missed one Sabbath, we need a fighter! Damn it, I was so bored in my room. And guess what happened? The gypsy loaned me his copy of the Pénal Code to read!”

To this, Dijon had shouted response: “Yes the Pénal Code is very boring!”

Valjean’s mind was elsewhere then and he had not put much thought into what was said; however in the days since he began to wonder what was meant by “we need a fighter”.  So when François finally walked up one afternoon to make their intentions clear, it was a relief to Valjean if not to Patou. “You will participate in a fight this Sabbath,” François told Patou nonchalantly, then rapped Patou’s thigh -- the one the pig bladder was strapped to -- with his cudgel. The sound of hard objects hidden under the pants was unmistakable. François smiled, the corners of his lips rising higher on one side than the other. “Leave voluntarily this Saturday or we search you every hour.” This was how, after three years in Toulon, Jean Le Cric finally understood why on many Sabbath nights a convict would be escorted back to the bedroom with a bruised face. For a long time he simply assumed that those men had a run-in with the guards’ truncheons before being taken to the cachots, as was frequent.

Patou tensed. He mumbled to himself as if to work out his options. “Search me every hour?” he asked.

“Yes!” François answered enthusiastically, and mockingly waved his cudgel right in front of Patou’s face. “Bye bye, business!”

“I will fight.” Patou capitulated with a shrug of his shoulders and François barked out a laugh before he went off on his way.

“That inept bastard sold me out!” Patou said angrily after the guard had gone out of hearing range. “Damned Mute, you are much stronger than me but they chose to blackmail me!”

“Maybe you will win prizes and get rich,” he commented. In a twisted sense this may even be a more productive way for Patou to spend his Sabbath than his usual activities.

“Risking yourself in a fight is always worse business than grabbing the winner by his testicles and trading the prizes from him,” Patou said. The words were still angry ones but the tone in which they were said had calmed. He rubbed the back of his neck, which was still sore from the attack a few days ago, then gave Le Cric one of his trademark winks: “But I suppose if I show up with a black eye Jojo would find me to be particularly manly, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” Jean le Cric said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I am sure even if you come back missing some teeth he’ll think you are manly for a few extra francs.”

“Shut up Mute. You are only jealous because you're impotent.”

Valjean did not care to deliver the few more barbs he had in mind. He only wished that Patou would be gone longer than a day -- as far as he could tell, those fighters always came back by the end of Sabbath.

Valjean slept on the _tôlard_ on Saturday night barely registering Patou’s absence -- perhaps the only noticeable difference was that he did not smell any rotten breath exhaled onto the back of his neck.

The next morning the _eprouvés_ unchained him from the _tôlard_ to a large metal ball, the _boulet_ , which substituted for his knight. At eleven when the whistle sounded and the door opened Valjean walked awkwardly to the exit, still not yet adjusted to the unfamiliar weight on his ankle. He limped with all the others towards the small chapel at the corner of the courtyard, to await his turn for the mandatory prayer.

When the guards waved him forward, he fell to his knees amongst a red sea of convicts too numerous to fit into the chapel. He lifted his eyes and saw that the path of unevenly shorn heads led to the open doorway of the chapel, to the top fraction of the small wooden cross hanging on the far wall.

Valjean lowered his head at the whistle, but prayers would not come. There was no Patou today. He had no need to pray that Patou would find satisfaction quickly so he did not need to listen to that for the entire afternoon, no need to pray for Patou’s enemies not to attack and drag him into trouble. He kept his head down anyway because he must.

Steady footsteps approached him from behind and the self-defensive instincts of le Cric kicked in -- it could only be a guard, because all the convicts around him were kneeling -- and when the footsteps stopped he saw an unrecognizable face, dirty, concealed by a wild beard, wearing a look of defeat, stare up at him from a pair of black boots at his side, its leather waxed to a mirror-finish. Le Cric’s muscles tensed involuntarily in anticipation of the blow that might come soon; when no actions and no words came he looked up from the boots, past the midnight blue pants to a gargantuan white-gloved hand, which made the black cudgel nestled in its fingers look like a child’s plaything. He froze and watched out of the corners of his eyes for the grip to tighten, but it remained relaxed; he had an inkling suspicion of who this was and so he continued from there, up past another swath of midnight blue and contrasting thick white straps which draped from both shoulders to cross at the front of the chest. He saw an olive-skinned face, black whiskers, long black hair which hung from under the black hat.

The realization that it was Javert next to him, close enough for him to lean into, stunned him into mindlessness; all at once a wave of relief spread over his body while a heavy weight sank into the pit of his stomach. He may not have fit into the chapel but he was still a man kneeling to the sight of His cross -- why this cruelty, to send this guard when even a careless glance, cast at the wrong time, could provoke a beating? God must know that the only outcome was for him to look, and now he saw that Javert had lowered his head, the solemn face flooded in light and shadow.

He recalled the patter of his feet as he ran into a large church for shelter from the scorching sun and the rough voice of his father warning that misbehavior would not be tolerated. He had felt intimidated, as if the eye of God was watching him from heaven, unblinking, until during the sermon he spied behind the altar a huge round window which colored the rays of the sun. He had stealthed away from where his family sat to the cover of the baptismal font, where he raised his tiny hands and grasped at the light. Even though the sleeves of his sunday shirt were painted green, red and blue, he had uncurled his fingers to find his hands disappointingly empty: God’s breath eluded him.

When his father smiled indulgently as he bent to whisper in his son’s ear, “What are you doing, Jean?” He answered: “I wanted to meet God, father.”

"This is just His light, _fiston_. Come with me, I want to show you something."

Valjean recalled how his father lead him to the back of the church with a broad hand laid gently on his shoulder. "Look at that, Jean," his father said eagerly, but he was confused because he saw only a small twisted and ugly tree.

His father patiently guided his hand to some light green shoots that had sprouted on dead wood. "This is where a pruner finds the work of God," he said, reaching for his old handkerchief; he picked up two of the spindly stems that rested on the ground, unable to stand upright, and tied them carefully to a still solid branch.

“Ohhh, now the sprouts can play together?” the young boy had reacted with delight, and tried to take the handkerchief from his father’s hand. “Let me do it, father.”

“Not this time, your mother is waiting. But this, _fiston_ , is what God expects of a pruner."

A shrill whistle, completely incongruous to the harmony of the lush garden tore through his mind. He stood up in the midst of an avalanche of motion, well aware that the guard was within reach of his hands. Then he walked with his head down, so the world will not know that for this moment, Jean le Cric had forgotten his dejection.

 

On the way to the fountain Javert’s long fingers hooked inside the wool of his uniform collar and tugged it askew for the third time in as many minutes. He looked up in dismay; the sky was overcast though the sun hanging directly overhead was still bright enough to make him reflexively raise a hand and shield his eyes. It was a typical fall day by any measure; that salt laden breeze had kept up since the break of dawn and now he felt it brush past his cheeks through his thin whiskers. He had felt comfortable in this regulation coat in far balmier days, so why was the inside of his collar damp with sweat? It was inexplicable.

Few men were at the fountain at the moment, and he gave in to his discomfort to unbutton the collar while he waited for the bucket to fill. He gave each boot the two hard yanks necessary to remove them, his gloved hands able to do this without marring the waxed leather surface with prints, then pulled off his stockings to bare his feet. By regulation guards must wash their feet twice a month, and he had settled into a routine of doing it every Sabbath. Since his transfer into the _Saint-François_ , however, even taking a quarter of an hour to wash his foot was beginning to feel like he was spoiling himself with luxury. His new colleagues showed no less restraint in asking him to cover their shifts than they demonstrated with their tasteless prank. Sabbath was the worst; he had taken at least an extra half shift, sometimes an entire full shift, during every recent Sabbath. Maybe they were out having fun. That was something he knew people did but which he had never understood.

Suds ran from his calloused foot as he cleaned it just like everything else in his possession: diligently, patiently, thoroughly. This was just about the only time every week when he would allow his mind to wander; it was difficult not to while confined to a bench and with his hands wet.

This time instead of working through particularly confusing articles he had read in the Pénal Code, he thought of 24601. While escorting convicts to mass he positioned himself to watch one of the convicts chained to a boulet, as always. Chance brought him next to 24601 and then -- he felt 24601’s eyes on him again.

A man could live without the most vital of needs common to all of humanity -- security, love, dignity, a full stomach -- provided that he never had the fortune to experience the ownership of it. In but one fleeting moment this resilience could be broken; this was human nature.  Javert stood so close to 24601 that even a man far more obstinate than he could identify some of the emotions in that gaze; it was disbelieving, possessive -- it was passionate. It made Javert feel wanted for the first time in his life, and the revelation of this heretofore unknown need had left him restless and in a persistent state of turmoil. This was also human nature.

And so, lost in his thoughts, Javert set his soapy foot down into the bucket, unaware that he had just splashed water all over the bottom of his trousers.

Sometimes in the dead of night in _Saint-François_ , standing in the bright room made silent by his mind’s ability to ignore the constant drone of snores, he wondered what he realistically would be in five, ten, twenty years. Prison riots were rare, but he was only nineteen if he were to believe his mother. He had thirty, maybe forty years before he reached the age of guards like Dijon and Poches, and as he worked shift after shift after shift he would encounter one. He would run to get his rifle and fire into the bedroom through the barred door, until more bodies than could be shot down rammed down iron with flesh -- then it would turn into a brutal melee of eight convicts for one guard. Eventually he would fall; the guards would not recognize him and the convicts would ignore a body already looted of everything of value: the rifle already pried from his weakened hands and probably being used to shoot and kill other guards, all his pockets already turned inside out and emptied, ammunitions pouch taken, maybe even his uniform gone, stripped off and already worn by another. He would be trampled to death in anonymity, as if his life was of no consequence, as if he had never lived. It would be his duty and he would try to do it without fear and without complaint.

But now he imagined that one of the convicts to pass by would be 24601, hurrying on his way to climb out over the walls, and 24601 would pause at this body for a moment before he kept running. And in that moment the man known as Javert, who began his life in a prison and would soon die in one, will have worth beyond his weapon and beyond his uniform. He would be able to breathe his last few breaths as a pardoned man, freed from the verdict of his ignominious birth.

Such irony! A convict offering a pardon to a guard, a pardon which even the new First Consul himself, Napoleon Bonaparte, had not the power to give. Complete and utter nonsense, but the thought calmed him nonetheless.

Thus calmed, he turned his attention back to his foot. He had been washing the same foot for half an hour  
and the skin on his foot had become wrinkled and pale. It was time to stop thinking and to wash his other foot, so he would not be late to his second shift.


	19. Calm Before the Storm

After the mass, Valjean walked aimlessly away from the crowd. Today he was free to think, to remember and imagine. Those things, in a place like Toulon, were not pleasant -- even the memory of his father teaching him his work, because today his hands will remain idle. In his absentmindedness, Valjean collided with Mouton, one of the _eprouvés_ in charge of the bazaar; the man was talking to some of the most skilled craftsmen of the _Bagne_ and surveying their still unfinished work. Valjean pressed his lips into a growl -- the closest thing to an apology in the _bagne_ \-- and turned for the bedroom, remembering that he had bought two nuts weeks ago, only to forget about them. He began to wonder if he should worry about his state of chronic distraction.

He bent down under his spot in the _tôlard_ and searched for the frayed cloth in which he wrapped his few possessions -- his bowl, his spoon, some rags used but still sturdy -- and rummaged through them. If they had not been stolen, the walnuts he bought days ago should still be there.

They still were.

He ignored the pain from his hip, which suffered as much as his scarred ankle from the drag of the _boulet_ , and scoured through the contents of Patou’s wooden box with a sense of triumph almost as sweet as revenge. From it he took a small, thin nail like those used to repair the soles of shoes. Patou might sell junk metal but Valjean knew that he kept only the best for himself. He brushed his finger against the pointed tip to check for sharpness and then bent it slightly to check for rigidity. Yes, this will serve well enough as an impromptu carving tool. He left in the box one of the walnuts as a deposit, then let the bedroom again with this nail and the second walnut in his hands. As the _boulet_ ground its way harshly down the stone of the stark corridors Valjean thought with a sense of dark humor: it was still quieter than the tongue of his knight.

Once out in the yard he felt lost again, and kept walking forward past many convict milling about not because he knew his destination but because he never felt an urge to stop. When he reached a remote corner he paused, and only when he had settled down did he realize belatedly that he was seeking the shelter of a tree -- an endeavor doomed to failure because no trees grew on this sandy stone gravel.

He studied the walnut resting in his palm. In the _Bagne_ it was primarily seen as a nutritious delicacy, an exotic change from the usual fare of oily beans. But that was not what he needed right now -- he needed to use his hands, and the fact that the cavernous labyrinthine folds felt organic, almost woody to the touch, made him all the more eager to carve it. In the hands of other far more skilled than he, a walnut such as this could become anything from a flower, to a child, a house, an animal, a fiacre. All it required was some imagination, yet that was precisely what he could not find since the once lush plains of Faverolles was rendered barren by drought.

In a mindless gesture Valjean tossed the walnut into the air, looking for new patterns to be revealed on its surface from the way it lands on the palm of his hand. Too light, he thought to himself as he tossed it again; he could barely feel its weight and he feared that a jab with the nail could crack it. When it was about to land again this time, his eye which was tracking its movement in the air fell onto the blue figure walking resolutely in the distance. Why was he still on duty? Valjean swallowed hard as the nut fell into his palm, momentarily forgotten: his thoughts had flown into a young body, to a soaked shirt that struggled to hide what was underneath it. He looked down at the oval, rough form. Suddenly, he felt terribly uncomfortable.

With a heavy sigh, he grabbed the nail and began to scratch the walnut’s surface slowly, carefully; of the distinguishing features he had identified, one circular turn on the fold could be an eye and the short protruding stem could be either a leg or a tail -- though the only thing he could imagine with a leg sticking out like was a dog in the middle of taking a piss. Mouton would probably not want that, but… the child he used to be would find this very funny.

Valjean was still trying to remember how that boy used to smile when three prisoners approached. He recognized the _eprouvé_ Sébastien, one of Patou’s regular customers. Odd things were told about Sébastien in the _Bagne_ and although Valjean did not usually pay much attention to rumors, his curiosity was spurred when he observed the _eprouvé_ walking close to one of the garland’s knights, allowing their shoulders to brush while both chattered. The third man, kicking pebbles, did not hide his annoyance.

They stopped at a place some distance away, possibly also in this corner for its remoteness. Valjean did not care to pry and turned his attention back to the walnut in his hand. What had an eye and a tail? So many types of animals this could become -- he decided to start by carving out a second eye. An animal. A tiny toy that a child like his nephew Marcel would be able to appreciate.

Unfortunately almost as soon as he began he realized that his calloused fingers, numb because of the brutal working conditions they endured, had difficulty holding the thin piece of metal. This made scratching the hard shell accurately a frustrating and almost impossible task, so he ended up hearing fragments of the conversation with a distracted ear.

“My mother introduced me to a nice girl, and wanted me to take her as a wife,” Sébastien said, possibly in the middle of sharing a reminiscence. “We had two children.” “How old will they be when you can leave?” the other convict asked in response. Sébastien answered: “God willing, I can have a year taken off my sentence, Clément, and my boy will only be 8.”

The simple domesticity of these lines made Valjean look up in surprise, and he caught on Clément's face a glimmer of joy, almost of pride. “You could still be a father to him,” he consoled.

“But I would miss your company.” Sébastien turned to his partner and looked sadly into Clément's eyes.

“I will only be six months behind you. Maybe I can be a family friend.”

Valjean felt amazed and slightly embarrassed: he had not thought such a caring relationship possible in Toulon and he most certainly did not think conversations like this would be had in the open.

"Ah, good afternoon, Le Cric!" Sébastien greeted, also a bit embarrassed. Perhaps they had not noticed his presence until now, because after he gave a terse nod in response, Sébastien gestured for his partner to follow as he walked away.

Liberated from unwanted witnesses and still shaken by an emotion which he could not fully understand, Valjean lifted his head once more to glance at the familiar and proud figure in the distance. The guard who watched the prisoners in their sleep, in their work, and even on their day off. Giving in to an impulse which he used to act on often, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine, only for a moment, the sturdy young man resting peacefully under a majestic walnut. He would approach Javert with the even and unfettered steps of a man who had toiled away his crime, he would frankly offer his calloused hand as gesture of friendship. Under that tree they would be equals; Valjean would present himself as a tree-pruner from Faverolles, and Javert certainly would shake his hand firmly and invite him to share shade and rest.

Valjean would speak of the apple tree’s smell when the fruit is ripe; of how he prepared trees for winter every time the leaves fell like this, and the young man, in return, would offer his first name. The sunsets would happen one after another and would be the time for them to be in trusting camaraderie after a day of hard work; seasons would elapse around them and life would move slowly, allowing them time to confide in each other secrets and aspirations. And perhaps there would come a day when Valjean would dare to capture Javert’s agile and strong hands in both of his, there would come a time when his rough touch would be accepted, even desired. Then there would no longer be distance between them.

But for now, in this place without trees, the afternoon was passing quickly. Valjean turned his attention once more on the walnut, a soft smile on his face; he worked carefully, and when he was finally satisfied with the newly carved surface he cleared it of remnant shavings with a single firm blow. It was finished.

He rose slowly, feeling the numbness in his legs and his stomach growling insistently as he had not wanted to interrupt his work to go lunch, but now fortunately the sun was setting and he could smell in the air the beans being cooked in the Salles.

If he hurried, he could find Mouton and deliver the carved walnut which now seemed to burn his hand. Perhaps his first attempt would not be good enough, but maybe he could learn in the many Sundays ahead. He must persevere because the effort would not be lost: he had sentenced his family to oblivion, consciously at first and later with resignation, burying his memories under the pain and the exhaustion of the endless days -- but it was still a possibility that some of them had survived.

He found Mouton at the entrance to the Salles, in front of a group of prisoners who seemed engaged in a heated conversation. The _eprouve’_ s eyes widened when he stepped into the crowd and turned to face him, his muscled body cutting Mouton off from the rest of the group. But he did not intend to intimidate, and so he wordlessly extended his open hand, on which rested the crudely carved walnut.

"Hmmm!” exclaimed the shaggy man as he scratched his chest, “Do you want some advice, Le Cric? Break the shell and eat the nut. It is the best you can do with it."

Le Cric closed his fist around the nut, and started walking without answering; when he passed through  the meeting which partially barred his way to the bedrooms and his _boulet_ hit one of the convicts causing angry protests, he did not even bother to look back.

Unbeknownst to Valjean, a guard watched him from afar as he entered the building, then moved to clear the group of convicts blocking the door. In the shadow of the stone building the observing Solitaire smiled. Those convicts were spreading rumors too close to truth about 90098 and had been ignored by the other guards for too long. He remembered the name of this dutiful guard: Javert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have been joking about Javert’s HUGE walnuts for a month.  
> Chapter 12 will be deleted and some passages moved to later chapters.


	20. Fear

Valjean rocked his feet on the edge of the _tôlard_ while he gulped down his beans voraciously by the spoonful. The _eprouvés_ had already removed his _boulet_ , but the unappetizing prospect of being rejoined to Patou was remedied somewhat by his observation that Javert was finally off-duty – the young guard had not come into the bedroom when the shift was changed.

He listened for the door to open with half an ear, and looked up when the metal clangs of the lock being undone were followed by those from a chain dragged across stone.

The large convict struggled to shuffle on unsteady feet, even though the attending _eprouvé_ led him forward at a pitiably slow speed. The face was swollen beyond recognition and Valjean was only able to identify this to be Patou by the number emblazoned on his red smock. That sly old fox sure took a beating; a bit surprising but perhaps deserved for underestimating his opponent.

When the _eprouvé_ was allowed to join their chains in silence, Valjean looked up at his knight in surprise and found the eyes, blackened and almost swollen shut, were darting about the bedroom in confusion. Until the whistle for silence, Patou uttered no excuse about the defeat, nothing about the opponent being a cheat or that he was weak from work. He collapsed onto the _tôlard_ and had said nothing at all, until Valjean laid down next to him to sleep.

Then, Valjean heard the hoarse voice from behind his skull: “Eveline? Where is Eveline?”

Shouted orders and rapidly approaching boot steps echoed in the room and Valjean, his mind blank from anger, rolled over to face Patou and whispered harshly: “Shut up lout, you will get us killed!”

Patou screamed, startled, when the guard struck him across his legs as a warning; but when the guard walked away he spoke again: “You are not mute? Where is... mmmfph!”

The guard had turned back to them, enraged and ready to strike again, and Valjean had no option but to clamp Patou’s mouth shut with his hand. He stared down at the moldy wood plank until the guard moved on after giving Patou a harder strike.

That night Valjean was only able to find sleep after he figured out how to keep Patou pinned down on the bed.

 

The following days were as a nightmare unfolding before him; Patou was unhelpful with work and when the boards fell the guards retaliated ruthlessly again and again, covering Valjean's body with bruises and not allowing Patou’s wounds time to heal. Even so, the old fox had the audacity to continue his business then make a colossal mess of it -- making up prices and failing to honor agreements until he infuriated all his customers. Throughout all of this, Patou kept repeating the same question over and over, sometimes so agitated that he let his food go unfinished: “Where is Eveline, Mute?”

Eveline was a female name and Patou mentioned before that this Eveline had red hair. Soon Valjean reasoned that this must be the secret name Patou used to refer to the prostitute Jojo, and just for the sake of giving an answer, he told Patou, “You will see Eveline on Sabbath.”

“I will see Eveline on Sabbath,” Patou repeated, immediately calmed -- only to ask again, minutes later: “Where is Eveline, Mute?”

“You will see Eveline on Sabbath,” Valjean said, horrified and feeling pity for this dirty, desperate beast for the first time in his life. “Now pick up those boards and follow me. Do you understand?” Then he repeated the same assurance every minute, so Patou would not forget and drop the boards in anger.

 

Valjean awaited the upcoming Sabbath as if it were the day of salvation, and when it finally came he led Patou behind the _Corderie_ against his own moral objections, until they found the line of waiting prostitutes.

“Where is Eveline?” Patou demanded, and when Valjean pointed to the red-head Patou lunged at him, screaming: “You killed my wife!!”

Valjean was taken completely by surprise and fell to ground with Patou on top of him, pounding away furiously at his head and chest. “Eveline had silky red hair!” the enraged man shouted, spraying spittle onto Valjean’s face. “You said I could see her today! Where is Eveline!” Valjean hid behind his arms and thanked God that Patou had apparently also forgotten how to punch properly, because he could not bring himself to fight back.

“Settle your wife-killing problems elsewhere!” Valjean heard an irate customer shout from somewhere beyond Patou. “You assholes trying to shut down all business?!” But by the time Valjean managed to roll over so Patou became the one pinned to the ground, everyone had already fled the scene. The side wall of the _Corderie_ was completely empty.

“Stop immediately! Separate yourselves!”

Valjean raised his hands above his head at the order and got up to his knees to show that he was not the initiator. “4607, stop kicking!” the guard barked, and Valjean recognized it was Javert.

“Monsieur, he doesn’t understand,“ Valjean began, knowing that Javert had seen the full extent of Patou’s physical injuries every time he did his habitual check for pre-existing bruises before he struck Patou over the past week. “He had gone mad,” Valjean said, nauseated  by the realization that Javert had been beating a sick man.

“Then by regulation 4607 should be in the hospital then sent to the _Salle des Indociles_ ,” Javert declared, his voice ringing proud and firm. He cradled his rifle against his shoulder and pulled Patou up to his feet with one arm, and that proved to be the only thing he needed to do to get Patou to follow: Patou was docile the enter way to Chélan, mesmerized by the sight of Javert’s ponytail.

“Leave them both with me,” said the chief Chélan upon hearing Javert’s description of the fight. Javert departed as ordered and Chélan led them into the building -- but instead of making the turn towards the hospital he led them down the steps to the _cachots_.

Some say that a man could forget everything but still the darkness of the _cachots_ will stay with them. In the case of Patou they were correct, and Valjean was left to restrain an increasingly frightened Patou by himself when Chélan left them locked inside Solitaire’s office before the two chiefs left the room.

“Why did you allow the fighter to be sent back into my room in this state?” inquired a displeased Chélan who was rubbing his balding scalp. “Didn’t you say you took care of the incompetent guard that left a body in the _cachot_?”

“Yes and right after the lesson that idiot managed to send a convict out too early,” Solitaire replied, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the prison above them. “I will take care of both of them, Le Chauve, but I want one of your guards as replacement. The one named Javert.”

“Damn it, you know I hate that name, you got the good name,” Chélan muttered, but his complaints were silenced by Solitaire with a pointed look at his bald head. “I tell you, Solitaire, that guard is trouble. He is too fussy for my liking.” Chélan continued, too disappointed by this Sabbath to care to explain what was only an intuition. “But yes, I will send him.”

“This makes things even more interesting.”

 

Valjean heard only the faint sound of pacing outside the door while this conversation happened, but that was still enough to inform him that the chiefs had not truly left. The longer it wore on, the more Patou’s anxiety became infectious.

Eventually when the door opened again, Solitaire returned to the office not with Chélan, but with two _eprouvés_ who detached their chains then proceeded to drag Patou away, kicking and pleading for mercy. Valjean was left chained to a metal ring embedded in a corner of the wall.

“Le Cric, they call you, so you must be strong,” the chief said casually as he filled the stove with coal. “Are you willing to fight next Sabbath?”

Valjean shook his head. Why would any man be willing to subject himself to whatever happened to Patou?

"Well it is too bad that you wouldn’t obey me. Do you know why they call me Solitaire?”

Fear closed its fist around Valjean’s stomach. He shook his head once more and watched wordlessly as Solitaire checked that the stove was set to full blast. “It is simple: Because no convict who had spent time alone with me are ever disobedient again.”


	21. The cachot

After delivering that line Solitaire had excused himself again rather anticlimactically but it was all a cruel plan: he had left Valjean chained only by his ankle, almost but not quite able to reach the pitcher of water sitting in plain view on the desk, and within minutes of his departure the office became sweltering.  Valjean’s attempts to reach that water either to drink it or to try to put out some of the coals with it served only to hasten his dehydration and collapse.  By the time he heard the door open Valjean was blinded by the continuous trickle of sweat into his eyes and too parched to speak, too weak to stand.  

“Did you change your mind during your brief stay?”

Valjean shook his head: no.  Because that thing that happened to Patou was worse than death.  

"I seem to have underestimated your pain tolerance, how unfortunate” the chief commented, emotionless.  And the blows rained down mercilessly, quick and efficient, as if the man had decided to make up for wasted time.  “Can’t break this…” Solitaire reminded himself as Valjean tried to protect his head with a limp arm, “but this, you won’t need this.”  He swung the cudgel into the convict’s crotch, and Valjean almost choked on his own vomit while his instinctive reaction to pull his legs in for protection was stopped by the chain, leaving him helpless and vulnerable.  He was still retching and spasming in excruciating pain when he heard the man mutter faintly through the buzzing in his ear: "Ugh.  Dirtied the floor."  

When the blows continued he remembered how to pray to God and beg for mercy.  But he remained silent until his senses dulled and the world faded away.

 

The first sensation to return was the pain; his head throbbed torturously, as if his brains demanded escape from his skull.  He slowly opened his eyes and was greeted by only absolute darkness and flashes of white whenever the pain crested.  He blinked repeatedly but the stubborn darkness enveloped him, imperturbable.  He was lying back on something hard, with a vague moldy smell; his fingers glided over the unfinished wood and thus he knew he was not floating, that there was something but darkness around him.  He feared that he had truly gone blind.

“Brother,” a familiar and longed for voice said, as if coming from the darkness itself.  “Jean…”

Jeanne stood before him, a woman with slight frame but muscled limbs.  God had endowed her with the tenacity to care for seven children as a widow and a lioness’ bravery to love every single one of them without restraint in a time when few reached adulthood.  While her back bent collecting stalks of wheat which had fallen to the ground and left behind from harvest, she kept her head held high knowing that her family retained the dignity of honesty.  "Brother, have no fear,” she whispered, “the darkness cannot hurt you, we cannot keep the lamp burning overnight ..."  Her words soothed him as they did on so many nights plagued by nightmares.

"Jeanne… where are the children?"   

“They are with me,” she said, a tender smile on her lips.  And Valjean heard metronomic thumps reminiscent of footsteps though his sister was still right there.  He extended his aching arm towards her, because there was something he needed to say and it was too important for him to say it without holding her hand -- small and never white nor delicate, roughened by the harvest of too many crops, none of them hers -- but he felt no warm body between his fingers.

“Sister,” he said, “Jeanne, there is a…”  He made an attempt to swallow to unglue his tongue, but there was no moisture in his mouth.  "I want you to know…" Not only was he incapable of communicating his thoughts, he had not a clear idea of what the question was that he needed to ask.  Jeanne watched on, her pretty and young face wrinkled from stress but her smile for him always loving and gentle.  

“Sister, there is a guard…” he tried again, “I…”

“A guard?” she asked, her smile faltering.  “So, a man?”

“Yes,” he whispered.  “A guard... a man.  You are like a mother to me, Jeanne.  His name is Javert.”  And then, without any better way to explain the depth of his feelings, he repeated to her again, “His name is Javert.”

Jeanne walked to him until her hand almost touched his forehead: “If this is what you feel God will forgive you.  And I will forgive you, dear brother.”  Her eyes glittered with joy as she watched over him with the same devotion she bestowed him in his childhood.  Valjean smiled and closed his eyes; he listened for and found those footsteps again, closer and with more clarity now.    

Frequent stops broke the metronomic rhythm. Three steps. One stop. A murmur. Three more steps and another stop. The murmur had become a muted, deep and potent male voice in its inexorable approach.  

If this was Death come wrapped in his black shroud, intangible yet almost frightfully corporeal, on his nightly visit of this graveyard to claim lost souls -- Valjean had neither the strength nor the desire to put up battle.  Somehow after that conversation with his sister, he knew he had more waiting for him where they were, in Faverolles, than in life.  

When light flooded the space, noticeable even through his too heavy eyelids, the footsteps became deafening and sheltered him in a blanket of reverberating sound.  He waited for the command to be spoken, as the light faded away and was replaced by a fainter, gentler glow.

"24601, respond.”

The voice spoke to his very soul with the might of thunder, compelling him to obey and attempt an impossible task.  But he heard a faltering note in it, too hesitant and too human to be Death.

"24601, respond.”

Valjean tried to open his eyes but his body, still clothed in his sweat-dampened smock, would not move aside from tremble with cold.  He perceived that this glow in the enveloping darkness moved closer until it shed its light on him from just beyond his eyelids, and that the owner of that voice, the presence who was not Death, crouched beside him.

It smelled, strangely, of coarse soap and saltpetre. 

An itchy sensation on his neck confused him until he felt a solid warmth on the skin of his neck, searching and digging into his flesh, until it wrought forth his pulse as if out of nothing and amplified it for him to feel, to understand.  The touch was shaken by a slight tremor and he heard a soft gasp when it rummaged through his beard again before pressing down somewhere else, and he felt his own pulse again, a bit stronger this time.

"Easier to find if I could have water..." he tried to say, but his words did not reach his own ears.

"Answer, 24601,” the voice said, then a pause and a snap, “ _Eprouvés_."

Cruel hands suddenly latched onto his limbs and the searing pain clouded his mind again, but though all he heard from the presence next to him was a swallow of saliva it communicated to him that the pain would soon pass, as would the sound of chains suddenly ringing in his ears.  

So when he was left alone again, he listened for the muffled footsteps and followed them into unconsciousness.

 


	22. The duty of the guard

He had thought 24601 dead.  There was no pulse.

 

He still felt the matted, coarse beard was rake against the skin of his fingers in a frightfully real phantom sensation, though his eyes told him he now held a hefty chain through his gloves while the _eprouvé_ secured its free end to the ring below the bed.  There was no pulse and even when he, gripped by terror, made a second attempt with his bared hand, the only pulse he was able to find was so weak that seemed merely an echo of his own.  Under the glow of the lantern he saw that 24601’s lips were peeling and that the convict had a still weeping wound on his temple.  When 24601 asked for water, he saw that the pitcher in that cachot had not a drop in it; it could not have been filled when dinner was served only three hours ago.

 

Both pitchers in the two _cachots_ he had been in since were at least half full, and as he bent down to set the chain onto the stone floor he saw that the one in this _cachot_ was also.  Was it gross negligence by an _eprouvé_?  Why was 24601 not receiving care in the hospital but instead left crumpled in a heap as if someone tossed him mindlessly into the cachot and his body ended up on the bed only by chance?   

 

He did not understand any of it, and all of it was made worse by the fact that he, Javert, was merely an hour into his first shift in the _cachots_.  He had done the only thing he knew: send one of his eprouves to find his chief immediately, and had heard nothing back until this moment, when two knocks sounded on the door.  

 

“Monsieur!”

 

Javert nodded to make clear that the _eprouvé_ was allowed to speak.

 

"The _Chef de Salle_ just returned to his office."

 

\---

 

“Monsieur--” in his haste he spoke as soon as the door was open, but was momentarily stunned out of his voice by the sheer amount of heat which blasted into his face.  “24601 requires medical attention.”  

 

“The convict in cell 3 is awaiting interrogation.  I will send in a nurse.  Do not enter that cell unless you have my permission.”  

 

The chief, Solitaire, was jarringly down to his rolled up shirtsleeves, but Javert did not dwell on this just like he chose not to dwell on the negligent _eprouvé_.   Those things could wait.  Perhaps Chief Chélan had not believed him when he explained that 4607 was hitting 24601, not the other way around -- he could not blame the chief for that because anyone who looked at the two of them would have thought the same -- but something was very wrong.  

 

The chief was watching him intently, almost as if curious why he had not left yet.

 

“Even if 24601 had already received _bastonade_ before the interrogation, the injuries do not look correct, Monsieur,” he said, because how could lashes with a tarred rope, no matter how poorly executed, lead to whatever it was he saw in there?  What could it be, unless…!  “24601 may have been hit by 4607, if they were left unattended before being put in to the _cachots_ , I...” he explained, his voice gaining strength as he spoke.  This must have been it, a negligent guard and a negligent _eprouvé_.  Something regrettable but at least understandable, and by alerting his chief he had fixed it.  He interrupted himself to allow the chief to speak.

   

“Then something is wrong,” the chief concluded calmly, hands busy unrolling his sleeves.  “I will send a nurse and check with the guard from the previous shift.  Go back to your shift, Javert.”  There was a hint of steel in the voice which said: this is the end of the matter.   

 

And the chief was right, the nurse first.  “Yes, Monsieur,” he responded before he duly exited the office.

 

The chief left the office close behind him, uniform jacket back on.  

 

Only much later, when still no nurse had come, did Javert realize that just like all high ranking chiefs Solitaire must be on a day shift.  He had left for the night.

 

\---

 

“7128, respond!”  He tapped on the solid door with his cudgel.  “7128!”  The records said this one had attempted to slice his wrists open with a smuggled piece of sharp metal only a few nights ago.  When no response came he slid open the tiny viewing window and peered through it.

 

“Gah!!  Was tryin’ to sleep -- wait!”

 

Javert moved on.  He turned to the door across the hallway with a sense of anger and also a sense of dread, for the presence of this convict in the _cachots_ felt vaguely foreboding.  “4607, respond!”

 

He could not even finish his command before the sobbing convict yelled back: “The Mute killed my wife!!”  This one had gone mad, and this one was also supposed to be spending the night in the hospital.  Had the same negligent guard locked 4607 into the _cachot_?  Had the chief forgotten to send the nurse?  Nevertheless, he moved on, only to break his rhythm yet again at the next door because the knowledge that he did not expect a response was a weight he could hardly carry.

 

“24601, respond!”

 

He had woken almost the entire hallway and desperate screams and pleas came from everywhere but this _cachot_.  “24601?”  He knocked on the door with his cudgel.  “24601?”

 

Left with no option Javert went to the older guard overseeing the night shift.  “The chief promised to send a nurse to cell 3 but no nurse came,” he said.  “It is urgent, Monsieur, can you send for a nurse?”  

 

“Cell 3?  Maybe one was sent and you didn’t notice.”  The old guard said dismissively.

 

“No, Monsieur.”  Javert knew he was the one who actually paced the hallway, and that this was the truth.  Would they have taken this more seriously if only it were reported by a different guard?

 

“Then I need to see if it really is necessary.”

 

Javert stopped awkwardly at the door when the guard entered, bracing himself for the possibility that without any idea of what he should have done better, it was all already too late.  He had barely waited for seconds before the other guard called out to him, finally with the distress the situation deserved.  “Get water!  Then get in here!”

 

He delivered the water and explained that he was under the chief’s order not to enter the cell.  The response he received left him in shock: ““This one is going to die like 90098, no, the chief will kill us both!  You make sure this one doesn’t die on our shift.  Get the convict to drink the water and stop the bleeding.  Do you understand?”

 

“Yes,” Javert said as he crossed the threshold.  He also understood that he had just violated a direct order.

 

He leaned over the tiny bed and cradled 24601’s head in his hand while he held the bowl of water against parched lips.  The sting of the prickly, oily close-cropped head on his skin was surreal to him, as were the complexities involved in the simple act of giving water to an unconscious man: more water ran down 24601’s beard and dripped onto the bed than the convict was able to swallow.  He was a child of the gutter and he had performed many odd jobs in exchange for food and shelter, but no one had offered pay for him to take care of another, and so he never had occasion to do it.  He wished he had now, if only to have some idea what to do.

 

He could keep refilling the bowl with water until 24601 could drink no more, and he could press his handkerchief against the bleeding head wound.  But aside from those two things… why would a convict take notice of a guard?  Why does anyone care about anyone at all in this world?  It could only be because they expected something in exchange, and the truth was that earlier today 24601 asked him to take 4607 to the hospital, and he had failed.

 

In him, Javert, 24601 had just a tiny improvement over having nobody at all.

 

He knew that 24601 wore a red hat as opposed to a green one; this meant that he was sentenced to labour for time, not for life.  Aside from this he knew nothing about the convict, who now seemed to be showing signs of improvement after gulping down the water, with the eyes visibly moving under closed eyelids.  He set the water bowl down for a moment so he could apply pressure on the wound, and he was pleased that the skin felt less dry than before.  He wondered whether 24601 was well-behaved enough to be an _eprouvé_ if he had not been chained to 4607; he wondered whether 24601 used his free time to learn to read, to thus be able to understand both the regulations in the _Bagne_ and the _Pénal Code_ and act accordingly.  

 

“You could not defeat the law and you could not hide from it, so you must remember it and obey it; this is what Captain Thierry taught me,” he said to the still unconscious convict.  His normal voice was uncomfortably loud in this tiny room and in any case it felt unfitting for this situation, so he tried to soften it.   In the end the rest of his sentence came out as a whisper: “Then maybe you won’t be a convict anymore and you will still notice me.”

 

Convinced that 24601 would not need any more water for a while, he set the convict’s head back on the bare wooden board as gently as his unsteady hand could manage.  Then he straightened himself back to full height to ease the pain in his back and began to pace, though the length of the _cachot_ was not even three of his strides.  "Here in the _Bagne_ the regulations are not too difficult to remember,” he began, his voice becoming more assured and firm as he spoke.  “Murder a convict or attack any person not a convict and you will be put to death.  Attempt escape, attack a convict, steal worth over five francs, or insult a guard, and your sentence will be extended by three years or you receive three years in double chain.  Smaller crimes like if you swear, or sing, or disrespect a guard, will get you in a _cachot_ or a round of _bastonade_.”

 

He stopped his pacing and looked down at the convict.  “I don’t know why you ended up here in a _cachot_ but you should.  It is not a written rule that making eye-contact with a guard counts as disrespect, but you should still stop staring at me the way you do.”  He stopped to clear the lump in his throat before he could finish: “... to avoid trouble.”  

 

He crouched down to set the bucket and water pitcher in the space beneath the bed.  Then he went back to his pacing.

 

“Once you complete your sentence the law becomes much more complicated… a jury can sentence a criminal to many different types of punishments.  Guillotine in the public square, hard labour in a _bagne_ like Toulon, jail time, military detention, deportation out of France, loss of civil rights, and public humiliation.”  His oversized hand sank into the beard of 24601 in a mindless gesture as he continued, “You also know what public humiliation is.  That is when you were left chained by your neck to a pole in the public square, with the big sign above your head.”  Long fingers guided by memory rested on that place where he found the pulse, and this time found scars left by the bite of metal.  “Can you at least read your own name?  That sign had your name and profession, your hometown, your crime and your sentence written on it.”  

 

The convict moved with a soft groan and seemed to turn into his touch.  He withdrew his hand and tried picked up 24601’s head again to offer more water.  “The _Pénal Code_ is a very big book and I don’t understand all of it yet.  Maybe I can explain more of it to you later, but for now… I will tell you the most practical parts.  If you resist an officer of the law, even if you don’t understand what they want to do, that is two years in a _bagne_.  If you fight them with a weapon it becomes four years.  But if someone attacks you and they have no authority to, you are allowed to defend yourself, even if you end up killing the attacker.”  

 

He took a drink from the half full water bowl in his hand, before he launched into an exhaustive explanation of the articles pertaining to arson, assault, and forging.  Far sooner than he expected he heard the sound of men in the corridor stopping at the _cachots_.  He knew this must be the _eprouvé_  making their morning rounds.   

 

Javert set the convict’s head down gently, then cleared his throat.  “I must go empty the buckets,” he announced, then he straightened his jacket and took his leave.

 

\---

 

The shift had already changed at dawn when a huge man descended the stone steps and strolled down the corridor.  As a guard ordered absolute silence, this man, Solitaire, entered cell number 3 and clicked his tongue in irritation.  Someone had messed with his prisoner.

 

The scabbard of his dress sword rustled against wood when he raised his lamp to survey the scene.  He ripped the bloodied handkerchief off from the convict’s temple and showed it above his shoulder.  “Did you do this?”

 

“No,” said the old guard waiting in the hallway.  “It was that new guard, Javert.”

 

“Ah!” Solitaire said, chuckling to himself.  “And I was concerned that I had to give you a compliment for doing your duty… well at least that idiot didn’t even wait a night before displaying his insubordination.”

 

The old guard shuddered as Solitaire’s crooked smile became a laugh that echoed down the hallway as he walked away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers: what do you think Valjean would have done if he woke up in the middle of this? We are asking because honestly we don’t know -- that is why we used our magical author powers to keep him unconscious. *maniacal laughter*
> 
> References:  
> Victor Hugo, Choses Vues. Toulon, 1839  
> http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k6391322b  
> CODE PÉNAL Du 25 septembre – 6 octobre 1791  
> http://ledroitcriminel.free.fr/la_legislation_criminelle/anciens_textes/code_penal_25_09_1791.htm  
> CODE DES DÉLITS ET DES PEINES Du 3 brumaire, an 4 -- 25 octobre 1795  
> http://ledroitcriminel.free.fr/la_legislation_criminelle/anciens_textes/code_delits_et_peines_1795.htm


	23. Everything has a cost

Solitaire exited the _cachot_ and was still laughing when he ran into a jolly Chélan, who had made a visit after enjoying his morning portion of snuff. “So how did the gypsy do last night?” he asked, their prior unpleasant conversation already forgotten. The two of them had risen through the ranks together first in the navy then this _Bagne,_ and his lightheartedness was a trait always appreciated by Solitaire. “He was vigilant and hard-working, but does not respect orders,” the chief of the _cachots_ answered. Chélan shrugged but restrained himself from smugly reminding his friend that, in fact, he had warned exactly of this. “Sending him back to the _Saint-François_?” he asked instead.

Solitaire muttered a few words to himself. “No,” he said resolutely. “He at least would not leave a dead convict to stink up a _cachot_. This gypsy is teachable with demonstrations.”

Chélan took off his black wool hat and rubbed at the growing bald spot on the top of his head. “No wine, no snuff, Pénal Code as bedtime reading,” he said, counting off all the observations he had made of the young man under his command. “No friends. The gypsy doesn’t even seem to like money.”

“Pénal Code as bedtime reading, and you said incensed when your guards pulled that prank on him?” Solitaire asked with a look of amazement and disbelief. “Yes,” Chélan confirmed.

Solitaire sneered derisively as he tossed the bloodied handkerchief he was holding into the basket of laundry waiting to be taken out of the _Bagne_. He had dealt with this type of man before. “This one is like the convicts who insist they are innocent no matter how much they are beaten. Splash some mud on them and they turn into docile sheep.”

“You make me want to smoke again,” Chélan said, pulling his hat back on with a sigh. “What was that?” he asked with a nod at the handkerchief.

“Convict blood.”

Javert scrubbed at the blood crusted into the folds of the skin on his knuckles and underneath his fingernails. He had been scrubbing for minutes yet the water still ran a faint red -- but this was already much better than the sleeves of his jacket, which he focused on next.

“Adjutant guard, Javert!”

He turned at the sound of his name and saw a guard he did not recognize. “We are investigating a crime committed in a _cachot_ ,” the guard said, getting straight to the point. “You are needed. Follow me.”

“Yes Monsieur.” Javert quickly wrung out the excess water from his jacket and put it back on with a slight frown. The blood stains had discolored the beautiful deep blue of the sleeves into spots of dull black. During their brisk walk down the stone steps he wondered whether this was a formal investigation regarding 24601 and 4607, but instead of using this time to explain the situation, the guard remained oddly tight-lipped.

The guard led him straight down the corridor -- which to Javert betrayed no signs of anything wrong -- to the final _cachot_ all the way in the back. The door was already unlocked, and the guard ushered Javert inside, where another guard was waiting. Both guards carried lanterns so the tiny room was well-lit, and Javert saw that the _cachot_ was exactly as it should be, a narrow wood bed, a bucket, a pitcher and nothing else.

The first guard stepped in behind him and closed the door. They were now three grown men crammed into a room small enough to induce claustrophobia in one. It was only now that Javert felt unease, because he remembered a critical fact.

“Messieurs, no convict was in this _cachot_ during my shift,” he said. He would turn his body to address the guard behind him also, but there was not enough space to do even that.

“A guard had committed a grave crime,” the guard facing him announced, as if he had not heard Javert’s previous sentence, “He was negligent in his duties and abused his authority -- he went into this _cachot_ and paid a convict for sexual favors.”

“I never entered this _cachot_ , Messieurs,” Javert said, a bit more strongly.

“You just did.”

The tone was accusatory, impatient, and Javert’s heart seized in his chest. But he knew that any inquiries into his behavior would terminate as soon as they questioned the old guard, who was his watch commander for almost his entire shift. “I will help with the investigation…” he was in the middle of saying, when he felt the chest of the guard behind him against his back, and a muscular arm invaded his field of vision to wrap around his neck. His defensive instincts, ingrained by painful lessons in the back alleys of Paris, won him precious seconds when he was quick enough to intercept the arm by catching it with one hand. But he was already at too much of a disadvantage to put up a fight against the assailant behind him, not to mention the one in front of him; all he could manage was an anguished howl before the arm curled tight around his neck, silencing him mid-scream. The strong arm pulled his head up and back, lifting him to the tips of his boots. His right hand was quickly pinned against the wall, rendering his cudgel useless even if he could keep a hold on it.

In this moment he realized that what happened to 24601 was not a result of negligence. At the onset of panic his vision narrowed; he tried to kick his legs and swing his arms, but he was trapped between the two men, a wall and a bed. He could not flee the room even if he could break the chokehold, and the harder he struggled the quicker he became faint. In a last-ditch effort he swung both legs backwards as high as he can and felt his weight sink further into his neck; the attacker screamed. Javert’s heel had struck the man’s knee cap, but that was not enough to make the man loosen his hold.

Black spots dotted his vision, then everything went black.

The commotion in the hallway pulled Valjean into heightened awareness in his pained and weakened state.

Two, maybe three pairs of boots were pounding the stone floor; he felt his mouth go dry as the footsteps approached without slowing their speed. The guards - it could only be guards - stopped a few feet from his cell and began to speak harshly; however, the echos and the thick walls prevented him from discerning the meaning of their words.

Valjean felt his mouth go dry. The guards were too close and he was at their mercy, as he had been when one of them held his head, perhaps an eternity before. Valjean had expected pain but not the rush of fresh, healing water, which slipped into his mouth. Another trick of his mind? No. Jeanne was ethereal, intangible. However, he still kept in his memory the lingering touch which had been almost a caress on his neck, warm, exploring. Then he pried his hearing away from the deep voice which seemed to still be ringing in his ears, and he heard footsteps, but not chains. Valjean groped in the impenetrable darkness for the pitcher he hoped could be found; with trembling fingers, he tried to lift it.

A blood-curdling cry, full of terror, impelled him to ignore the pain in his ribs and sit up on his board. The hair on his neck stood on end as instinct told him that this voice belonged to someone dear to him. His mind raced through familiar faces, lost in the dark and yet terribly lucid. He opened his eyes wide, but his world remained pitch-black. He waited for the voice to return, and when it did not, imagined how the guards had silenced the sound. He heard no gunshots, but he knew what could happen in these rooms; vivid and gruesome visions flooded his mind, of this faceless man being beaten to a pulp, flesh against stone. Screaming for help which would never come. His heart pounded until he felt his throat tighten. He panted, but air would not come.

When Javert regained awareness they had already tied one of his legs to the bed and was pulling his other leg wide -- so wide that not only was it dangling off the bed, but that his boot scraped across the stone on the opposite wall when he tried to straighten it. He arched his back to better fill his still depleted lungs with air, unable to gulp it down by the mouthful like he desperately wanted because of a wad of cloth they had shoved into his mouth. His arms were stretched above his head and bent under the wood plank. He heard the second guard’s voice right next to his ear: “He is awake. Do it quickly.”

Rope was being looped around his wrists and thigh, and when they pulled everything tight he felt a numbness in his outstretched leg. He yelled into the wad of cloth all his questions in stuttering breath -- was this another one of their horrible ideas for a prank? Was this some sort of colossal misunderstanding, even though he could not fathom how that would be possible?

The pain in his shoulders forced him to shift slightly up the plank, and now his head fell partially over the edge of it. “This one is grouchy and needs some relief. Remember how much he paid you.” He squinted at the glaring light streaming through the open door, and saw, upside-down, the hunched silhouette which the guard was speaking to. The incomprehension and anger which turned his insides cold now became full-fledged horror. He tried to scream for help, to no avail.

“He paid three _francs_ , Monsieur,” the silhouette confirmed in a delicate voice with a soft lisp.

“Good. Now give him his money’s worth.”


	24. What they mean to each other

Javert stared through watery eyes at the approaching form.  It ducked underneath his leg and he heard the unmistakable sound of metal on stone -- chains.  The guard closed the door again and suddenly he could see the tufts of red hair on the unevenly shaved head and freckled face.

He tried to turn away from the hands reaching for the buttons down the front of his jacket and pants, but it made no difference whatsoever.  Within seconds they had undone every button, and though he could not stop them from pulling open the front of his jacket, he sank his weight into his rear when they tried to lower his pants.  

One of the guards grabbed a fistful of his shirt and cut straight down the middle of it with a knife.  “Stop fighting or I do the same to your precious uniform,” he said, and pulled both shirt and jacket up Javert’s torso to keep them out of the way.  Javert lifted his hip and willed his unsteady vision to focus on the guard’s face.  A memory of the face was all he needed to figure out the guard’s name and demand justice from the chiefs.  That was his only hope.  

A hand cupped on his testicles made him flinch and lift his head against the painful tension in his shoulders to watch the convict between his legs.  The prisoner had rolled up the sleeves of his red smock and spat once, twice, into his palms before cupping and kneading the cold and shrunken genitals again.  Javert was stupefied by the surreal scene unfolding before him: the young convict with pasty white arms and forehead covered with pimples gave his penis one... two... three confident strokes before leaning down and swallowing its entire length.  And then it was gone.  He could not see it anymore -- only those tufts of red hair, bobbing up and down.    

The indescribable sensations of warmth, moisture and pressure from the skilled tongue made Javert shudder and his head crash back onto the plank, sending a burst of sparks into his vision.  His mind flailed against his incomprehension; he did not have the vocabulary to even name what was being done to him -- is this rape?  It should be but the legal definition of rape was that the victim was a daughter, wife, or widow -- and he was none of those things.  His heart pounded in his chest, responding to the stimulation by forcing blood through his veins and down to his groin.  He growled and strained against the ropes with all his strength until they cut into his skin and he tried to lift his pelvis to throw the convict off of him.  

“Can’t you see he is still unhappy?!” barked one of the guards.  “Do a better job!”

The convict swirled his tongue around the rapidly lengthening and hardening flesh as he pumped it quickly between his thick, puckered lips. Javert fought to suppress the shaking of his legs and the overwhelming reflex to arch his back against the assault of sensations; he desperately threw his head from side-to-side to get them to stop this thing, this not-rape, but the two guards watching and laughing right next to him only tugged at their collars and complained of the sultry and sweaty air.  “Maybe this one likes to take it up his ass, Princess!” said one of them.  “Don’t make us wait the whole day!  Damn, I almost feel jealous!”

At the guard’s words Javert saw the convict wet a finger with the saliva soaked into his pubic hair and reach out of sight -- then he felt its touch around the opening in his rear. He screamed into the cloth in his mouth until spittle ran down his face and he tensed up his entire body to try and keep out the probing finger.  The convict must have been hesitant to penetrate a guard by force for fear of retribution because while the pressure was constant it did not increase, and Javert exhaled in relief when he felt the mouth leave his painfully throbbing erection behind.  Soon a guard will patrol the hallway, he told himself, and they will notice something.  If not a guard, then the chief.  Help will come.

He felt a series of rough tugs on his pants, which were already pulled as far as they could go down his widely parted legs, until one last tug sent each pant leg down to his knees.  He closed his eyes and, somehow, he remembered the way 24601’s fingers weakly caught the fabric of his pants as he was pacing and how he had dodged it.  Sticky fingers latched onto his ass cheeks and pulled them apart.  He felt huffs of warm breath and then, instead of the firm finger, a soft tongue push into him.  The sensation of a thrusting and wriggling tongue in that most private of places made his breath hitch; he felt everything from his navel downwards go weak as if finally succombed to the unbridled needs and desires of his young male body at the peak of its vigor.  In this brief moment the convict pushed in his finger again, and Javert felt it glide effortlessly into the lubricated passage and past his sphincter.  The curling and stabbing finger caused a raw burn which was unpleasant, and which Javert tried to be thankful for.  When the mouth took in his penis again, still rock-solid and eager for the attention to return because that was not enough of a pause for the arousal to subside even one bit, he pushed his awareness of the unbearable pressure to the back of his mind, insteading focusing on the painful burn inside him.  But as his body adapted to the alien presence, the sensation went from pain to discomfort to warmth, and suddenly the searching finger stumbled into a spot deep inside which sent a crest of pleasure surging upwards from the base of his spine.  The inside of his thigh flared into white-hot pain when his body arched backwards, stretching his bound leg past its limit.  The convict now thrust into that spot with relentless pace, and Javert did not need experience to know that his body could not resist any longer.  

He squeezed his eyes shut because his vision was fading anyway and listened to the buzzing in his ears.  Time itself seemed to slow down further the more he wanted this to be over as soon as possible, as if out of spite.  He felt a rush of despair which drowned even the burning lust in his groin; perhaps his convict father was busy whoring himself out for a few sous, sinking into greater depths of turpitude at the same time his young son was trying everything to flee from it.  Everything he had done was still not enough for him to escape his fate.  He wanted to be a guard but the guards would break the law to make him a convict.  He felt as if his body would burst into pieces, and the tears rushed out of him first, before he spilled his seed in several powerful spurts.  The last of his strength and will bled from his body; he cried, drenched in sweat and utterly spent.

“Well that finally got going by the end -- go.”

Javert was still in a post-climax haze when a guard escorted the convict out to make room for another man to enter.  His vision was blurred by the pool of tears he could not wipe away, but the buzzing in his ear was subsiding.  He closed his eyes.  Something shattered inside his soul when an anguished and feral scream made itself heard somehow, against the continuous background of screaming.  In it was the entirety of emotion which raged inside his body but which he could not give voice to.  Despair. Disbelief. Incapacitating helplessness.  The screams, distorted by echos and background, made him feel as if for the first time in his life, he did not suffer alone.

“You work for me now and you will obey me now,” the man said as he smeared the semen across Javert’s torso with a casual swipe of his cudgel.  “If you allow someone who is not me to find a corpse in a _cachot_ , you know what is going to be in the report I will submit to the _Premier Adjudant-Chef_.  I will even allow you to enter them to check, since you seem to enjoy it so much -- because, you see, I am a considerate boss.”

Javert saw that this man was Solitaire and he tried to turn his head away from this nightmare.  The cloth was ripped out of his throat so he could pledge his obedience, but he pressed his lips together and did not speak.  He did not want this man to hear his sobs.

“Need time to think about it?  Fine.”  Solitaire nodded to the remaining guard, who promptly re-entered with cudgel in hand.  “Remember that you also need to obey me,” he said, and actually sounded sorry.  “This is from the boss.”  

When the cudgel connected with Javert’s skull, he welcomed it.  The unconscious void was a relief from his misery.

 

He sat for a long time after he woke.  They had buttoned his jacket and put a new pair of pants on him and left him untied in the _cachot_ , so he could pass as a guard who took a nap on an empty bed. His only logical next step was to appeal to his chief, Chélan, for a formal investigation to be launched, but perhaps the guards in the _Saint-François_ would all be too busy settling the bets they made about how long it would take for him to trade his uniform for a smock.  That was only a few weeks ago.   

He wanted to hide in the sheltering void of this _cachot_ longer. His ribbon had fallen from his hair at some point and only after a long time did he summon the strength to grope blindly around the floor under the bed to find it.  With his fingers he combed his sweat-matted hair back into its usual ponytail, but he knew he still looked the part of the derelict guard --and that the only way out of this place was through a brightly-lit and barren hallway which a man could not walk down unseen, if anyone was watching. He stood up and smoothed his damp and wrinkled wool uniform with his fingers. When he finally opened the door he tried to keep his head held high and his back straight; no one was in sight but Javert still remained in the shadows for a long moment.  

He had not realized it but he had been directly across the corridor from cell 3, and now, looking at that closed door, he understood that the chief never intended to give 24601 the medical care required by regulation. But here, in the cachots he patrolled, 24601 will receive care. If not from a nurse then from a guard.

He crossed the corridor with a slight limp and, raising his cudgel, knocked on the door.  “Respond, 24601,” he said -- only as loud as he dared.

“Who are you?” came the hoarse response.  

Javert considered whether to leave without answering, but, after a long pause he whispered, “A guard, 24601.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Encyclopedia of Diderot and d'Alembert (1751-1772)  
> "The one who commits crime that uses force and violence upon the person of a daughter, wife or widow, for carnally acquainted despite strong and continued resistance she shows to defend herself. "


	25. Unnatural trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latest revision: August 31, 2014

The salty air smelled of storm; while gray storm clouds charged against each other over the horizon, a guard limped slightly as he crossed the _Bagne_ ’s courtyard. It was mid-afternoon and the inmates were labouring while the guards were either on duty or sleeping; the young man was grateful for this because his pilgrimage to the fountain aroused little interest, despite the miserable state of his uniform. He paused for a moment, engrossed by the stream of water, before he abruptly put his head in its path. The liquid ran down his hair and his body. He rubbed his chest furiously with a bar of soap. Under the open jacket his torn shirt seemed almost a toothless mouth mocking him against his flushed skin.

"Ah Adjutant,” the _Chef de Salle_ Chélan greeted his salute with a bored look. "Stopping by the _Saint-François_ to visit the old comrades?"

Javert was as tense as a violin string but kept his gaze fixed on the weapons cabinet just behind the chief’s shoulder. Chélan removed his hat and scratched his bald head thoughtfully as he studied the solemn face. " _Le Gros_ , go see if the _eprouvés_ have dinner ready. And take ..." he made a sweeping gesture with his hand to indicate the two other guards in the room greasing their rifles. "What happened, Javert, the _cachots_ are not to your liking?"

"Monsieur, I must report that irregularities are occurring..."

"No, no, Adjutant.” Chélan raised a hand, to force him to silence. “What happened, someone had forgotten to put a name in the register? Someone skipped a number when counting strikes on a convict...? "

"Monsieur--” Javert swallowed thickly and tried to clarify, “The situation is worse..."

Chélan rose suddenly, striking the table with his open hands. "I have no time to listen to fantasies of a beardless boy who believes himself a man. What are you going to invent: beatings, rape ...?" He walked around the table and put a confident hand on Javert’s shoulder, not giving him another chance to speak. "Look around you, boy. The _bagne_ is a monstrous machine and like all machines, it needs oil to work. Some contraband snuff here, a favor there... This is the oil that keeps this monster running." A heavy open palm crashed hard against Javert’s shoulder blades. "I'm sure you understand me, yes?"

“Yes Monsieur,” Javert said. He understood. He will need to report to someone of higher rank than _Chef de Salle_ , somehow. For now though, his stomach was grumbling loudly for him to eat something after having missed both breakfast and lunch, and he must do so even though he felt no appetite. They may try to do more irregular things during his shift and he could not afford to be weak with hunger. 

 

\---

 

The shift change was for Valjean merely some passing footsteps in the darkness.

And then there was nothing, for an amount of time he could measure only with his own breaths, before eventually they started up again.

It seemed that he spent most of the time since that guard spoke to him lying on the bed combatting the feelings of powerlessness and worthlessness which drowned him as he heard that same scream echo  over and over in the impenetrable darkness, and now… the only mode of defense available to him was to listen for information, at least until they opened the door. Passing on the other side of his door were both boots and chains, and ironically the sound of the chains calmed him because that signified either an eprouve being escorted as he performed some menial task, or maybe it could be another miserable soul who was about to be tossed into one of the other cells. In the cachot there was no light and there was no sense of time, but his last contact with the outside world was when the eprouvés gave him the plate of beans, which he spilled everywhere trying to eat while lying down. Perhaps it was night and they were coming to chain him to this bed, which he could not leave anyway. It may even be the same guard stopping by to give him water, just like last night.

He closed his eyes and waited.

A male voice sounded repeatedly as it approached down the corridor. At first, Valjean believed that the calls were a cruel form of harassment, intended to startle the prisoners out of even their sleep, until he heard commotion shaking the stone walls and men screaming for a nurse. Death could seem a friend for a man locked in these cells, and Valjean could understand why. But now his mind did not perceive the _cachot_ , only the bind in which it was trapped, forced to struggle between fear and hope.

When he opened his eyes to the click of a key being turned in the lock and saw that it was Javert who entered behind the _eprouvés_ , an icy surge engulfed Valjean’s body. On the one hand his instinct shouted that Javert was the man who had watched over him and, if only for a moment, opened himself to the possibility of friendship; on the other hand, his mind could not understand why Javert was here, instead of being in _Saint-François_. And later came fear, more felt than thought, even though his mind already had more than enough to contend with: when the guard ordered the _eprouvés_ to leave with him to the next cell, Valjean matched the voice -- the screams -- with the face, and then he knew that it was not just a mysterious kind guard who had suffered, but it was Javert who suffered.

He allowed Javert to leave; he was too stunned and then too afraid to call him back with the _eprouvés_ present.  So he waited -- time was something he had in abundance here, and it was also just about the only thing he had to give.

Eventually when he heard steps again, it approached until he heard a knock on the door.  "24601, respond!" the voice, Javert’s voice, called; but Valjean remained still, holding his breath in hopeful anticipation.

"24601, respond!"  

No, Valjean would not respond, until after a tense moment the door creaked open and a blinding light rushed in, settling so close to his face that he turned away out of reflex.

"24601, respond!"  Valjean could perceive concern in that voice; when the menacingly rigid cudgel pushed against his jaw gently and forced him to look again into the light, he had to blink several times, before the face of Javert came into focus. Amazed, he found that the young man was inspecting the wound on his temple.  It was not one of the injuries he felt most acutely, but he knew it must be the most visible one.

"Permission to speak, Monsieur --" words quickly left his mouth as he tried to lower his eyes in submission. It was in vain, for he was too fascinated by the cold glint in the eyes, too alarmed by the flinch which communicated not surprise, but apprehension. Some part of his mind informed him that this was _wrong_.

"Why did you not respond?" Javert had taken a step back and closed the door before he spoke, awkwardly uneasy for some reason beyond Valjean’s understanding. Valjean would have lied, that would have been the easy way out, but he felt that would have been too disrespectful. He looked down, ashamed as he forced himself to speak. "I wanted  know why you helped me" - he croaked through his parched throat and the words did not want to stop - "you gave me water, Monsieur?"

"Yes."

Valjean waited patiently for the rest of a sentence which would never come, because Javert had turned his attention to the overturned jug on the floor, which he picked up after crossing the cell with a slight limp. As Javert wordlessly headed for the exit, Valjean extended his arm almost blindly until it the guard’s trousers, in a feeble attempt to stop him.

"I will refill your water." Javert’s voice was the same as the one which had accompanied him in his delirium, but now the words were cold and concise. Impersonal.  

"I cannot lift the pitcher anyway."Valjean felt no shame in admitting defeat to Javert; instead he was moved by a new and overwhelming feeling tempted him to explain the pain in his sides, the pain which prevented him from reaching and lifting the weight of a water jug. He remembered his last failed attempt; feeling his throat on fire, he closed his eyes and found solace in memories of a time when he was able to drink his fill. "Why did you help me?"

But Javert was out of reach, ready to leave the cell. "Wait," he said.

Valjean nodded, out of habit, and only belatedly realized that this was not a useful response to a man who was already halfway out the door with the lamp, leaving the _cachot_ in the dark. Of course he would wait, he could do nothing else; perhaps Javert would send back one of the _eprouvés_ , maybe even give that _eprouvé_ an order to fill his bowl. Valjean’s smile was vacant and hollow: even such a simple act was an unnecessary deference to an inmate, but it still would do nothing to alleviate the frustration he will feel if he could not speak to Javert.

"Water now?" Javert hung the lamp on the wall hook and closed the door; moments later the light was moving between the bowl and the pitcher. Valjean nodded silently, bewildered, and accepted the proffered bowl. He emptied it in large gulps without worrying about spilling liquid on his face and clothes, and when he looked up to discover the guard watching him closely, he felt embarrassed and he tried to restrain his eagerness; in a futile effort to regain composure he wiped his chin with the sleeve of his smock and set the empty bowl on his chest.

"Do you want salt?" The guard reached into his pocket, but made no further movement as he waited for a response.

"Salt?" Valjean did not know what to think, but through actions, Javert had demonstrated that his intentions were ... good for him. He decided that the trust was his best option. He nodded again before asking: "Salt is medicine?"

"I don’t know." Javert unwrapped a piece of wax paper to reveal a small chunk of salt and held it out. The answer was not at all reassuring, but instead of allowing the silence to become even more uncomfortable Valjean picked up the white lump with his fingers.  It seemed that his acceptance spurred the young guard to explain further: "When we were in the _Chaîne_ , the cook made me add extra rations of salt in the soup for hot days." Valjean felt the crumbling grains between his fingers and looked at him, thinking for a moment that this humble piece of ore was, for him, more valuable than silver.

"I salted your beans," Javert said with the conviction he remembered through the mist, vaguely expectant.

"Thank you." The words were just a grunt, but were all Valjean could manage before licking the piece several times.

"You should eat it,” the guard told him while refilling his bowl. As he placed the chunk onto his tongue and washed it down with the water, the guard who was watching him intently spoke again: “If you die I would have to discard your body in the sea.” Puzzled as to whether that quiet comment was a well-intentioned warning or an insult, Valjean dared to hold out his empty bowl so Javert would come and place it on the floor. Javert crossed the distance to the wall in one step, but it was enough for Valjean to confirm that his limp was not imagined.

"What did they do to you?" He bit his lip, repented of having spoken, even before all the words had left his mouth; he closed his eyes in anticipation of the anger or strike that could be provoked by a question asked by one who was not entitled to do so.

"What they did and what they say does not matter. You were unconscious but I did not use you." Javert stood next to the bed and defended with the full force of his conviction a statement which made no sense at all. Valjean suddenly realized how little he knew about this man -- he had only seen Javert off duty in _Saint-François_ , the night he had been the victim of a cruel joke. 

But he wanted to know and to understand, especially if the only way he could leave this cachot was to die in the fight. There were many things a person could be used for, but a convict trapped in a cachot was only good for one of those things. “Use me as one would use a prostitute or a woman?” he asked anyway, and saw that the young man trembled while he took on a distant expression and his eyes shifted focus onto something non-existent. Perhaps a memory.

It was an abnormally long moment before Javert responded. “Yes, like someone would pay a whore, except you were unconscious.”  

“I believe you. I would know if you did.” Valjean reached out and held Javert’s gloved hand in his own for a brief moment, before the guard recoiled and it slipped out of his grasp. Fear be damned, he had so few things left under his control now, perhaps not even his own fate, but this hand within his reach was one he wanted to hold, and this man in front of him was one he wanted to mean something to. "Allow me, Javert," he rasped as he stretched and closed his fingers around Javert’s hand then tugged, softly but insistently. He had been blinded by Javert’s strong will and unsociable character and not realized how young the guard truly was; Javert appeared almost as sullen as himself, and he knew just how much a sullen man could suffer in silence.

Javert resisted his pull and though his brusque “Call me Monsieur” carried a hint of irritation the young guard then cleared his throat and asked, much more obligingly, “What do you need, 24601?”

Anything, Valjean wanted anything from this man because even the feel of his warmth radiating through the felted wool glove was more than he expected to be granted. "I need you..." he answered thickly and allowed the unadulterated truth to hang in the air for a split second before the confusion on Javert's face aroused in him a sense of compassion that he added gently, "closer -- I need you closer, Monsieur."

He held out his free hand across his body in an invitation for Javert to come between his arms and then he waited; for a moment neither man moved and all moisture seemed to have evaporated from Valjean’s tongue. When he labored to swallow he was struck by the complex aftertaste of the salt, because it tasted of the sea. Emboldened by the fact that Javert still made no second attempt to withdraw his hand, he tried to guide Javert down closer to the level of his bed with another tug, and this time he felt no resistance because Javert relented, lowering himself to one knee. 

Valjean struggled to lift himself on his aching side, the pain flaring with every breath no matter how shallow, but none of that mattered when he closed the distance to the young guard and was able to place a hand on his back. Javert smelled strongly of the coarse soap he remembered, and the smell of saltpetre was gone -- a fact which somehow made Valjean feel uneasy. But when Javert made a faint startled sound, as if it were a signal, Valjean began to rub the broad back in a circular motion until lean muscles relaxed under his hand. "Did they hurt you, Monsieur?" he asked, almost whispering so as not to startle Javert.

Javert remained silent for a moment. "No one had ever asked me that question before," he said. The palpable awe in Javert’s voice distressed Valjean greatly; where did this young man come from, who was unable to recognize the simplest displays of affection?  Why did he give his care with the same coldness with which he dealt blows?  

"Did they, Javert… Monsieur?" he asked again, more insistent.

"What do you mean by hurt? They choked me but they did not beat me."

"But you are limping, and ..." Valjean brushed his thumb gently on Javert’s temple, which was bruised and swollen.  

"Yes, I suppose that was a hit. But what they did… it was not rape.”

Javert said “not rape”, but all Valjean heard was “rape”. Shocked, he closed his eyes tightly, trying to quell the anger which caused tremors in his hands but his body did not seem willing to obey. He had seen too many men limp away into hiding, sometimes severely beaten; sometimes not. But they all bowed their heads and avoided eye contact; all of them had become permanently frightened and elusive. Some of them had lived with it, others had begun to exhibit strange behaviors.

But Javert remained strong and proud. Unable to hide a pained grimace Valjean leaned closer to the young man so he could put more of his arm around Javert’s shoulders and pull him into his chest. “You are the same man, Monsieur.”Valjean's mouth felt dry again, as he could find no more than awkward words to explain what was of the utmost importance.“You are very dear to me, Monsieur."

Javert made another small sound, maybe a sigh, and Valjean felt lost clinging to the broad toned back, marveling at the sense of inward strength; It was so different from the fragility he experienced in embracing his sister. Perhaps this was the feeling provoked when embracing a man ... but no, he could not imagine that an embrace of his own body, full of bulging and unyielding muscle could arouse this feeling. This was Javert; vulnerable yet secure, his for a few stolen moments.  

"They cannot change you, Monsieur" he said; Javert relaxed a little in his arms, and though this worsened the piercing pain in his side he welcomed it.  He would hold on to Javert like this and get him to sleep, but that would do nothing to protect him from the world outside this door. It was not enough for those beasts to leave him to die alone and in the dark; they would hurt a fellow guard for showing him kindness. At least if he agreed to fight, Javert would not get himself into trouble over him anymore. "Do not believe them if they tell you I fought because I wanted to,” he said through gritted teeth. “They are forcing me, as they did with Patou, Monsieur."

The young man tensed in his arms and only then did Valjean realize he had never stopped to consider how his words would affect Javert, even though in his mind he only wanted to tell of things even a convict should have a right to tell and have heard. He tried to calm Javert by continuing to rub his back, but Javert pulled away and Valjean’s arm did not have the strength to cling on.  

Javert did not stand up, only straightened his back so he could make eye-contact. "Who is they? And who is Patou?” he asked, visibly distressed.

Valjean allowed himself down onto his back to ease his side, and he turned his head to watch Javert; in this moment, if he were to delude himself, Javert seemed genuinely concerned for his safety. The small lantern flame lit Javert’s face, the wavering gentle glow softening the young man’s features. He remembered different shapes of light and shadow on this same face when he looked up in awe that day at mass. That time Javert was peaceful, serene; although he was unattainable.  Now Javert was flesh and bone in his hands but Valjean preferred to see that expression than the concern etched in his face, even if that concern was for him. Then he remembered the question which was asked, and with a ping of guilt, he wondered whether Patou had also incurred Solitaire’s wrath. He knew his knight was not in the state to survive such a beating, but all he could do about that was to clench his fists helplessly.

"Solitaire and others like him think Patou is 4607," he said to Javert, and wished that he had the strength to reach up and adjust Javert’s tall black hat, which must have been bumped askew when he held him close."But he has a name, like me, Monsieur."

"By Regulation you have both lost the right to wear your names."

Valjean shuddered. There was no hostility in the voice of Javert, he simply reported an established fact.  “Javert,” Valjean said, urging with his eyes for Javert to listen. “My name is Jean Valjean. I was a man once and I would be one again, Monsieur.”

Javert was silent.

Valjean took Javert’s hand and led it to his neck, inviting him to touch through this gesture where words failed; long fingers found his pulse almost immediately then remained still. It was a modest, almost cold demonstration of care which nonetheless calmed him by conveying a sense of stability and unyielding strength-- who else would he want this from, but this man who had a silver anchor on his hat?

“I was a thief, but I now know that was not worth it," his voice trembled with the gravity of this truth he did not learn until the gates of the _Bagne_ were already closed behind him, months too late to make any difference for Jeanne. He knew if he died in the fight he would be left to lie in his grave in the _Bagne_ ’s cemetery with a ring around his ankle, marked as a convict long after the flesh had all turned to ash and only bone remained. He would leave her bereft of even the minimal consolation provided by a grave where she was free to mourn, and where the children could bring flowers in November, as the two of them had done for their own parents. "If I do not survive... will my earnings reach my family, Monsieur?"

Javert stiffened and withdrew his hand, breaking the hug. "It is written in the _Pénal Code_ that at the completion of your sentence you will receive two-thirds of your due, 24601."

Valjean restrained himself for a moment to better compose what was most important into a coherent sentence. “I am from Faverolles... in the Brie, and my family may all have died but... I need to know that someone will try to find them before my earnings are taken.” Javert seemed impassive, but in truth he had no confidence reading the expression of a face half in shadow; he took a deep breath, searching for words. “My sister Jeanne and her children… they were starving, Monsieur.”

"I believe if you die your account will be cleared… but the clerks are responsible for these tasks,” Javert said, the voice calm but lined with some emotion Valjean could not place. “It is not the duty of the guards."

Javert was still kneeling by the bed but Valjean felt only the depth of his own despair. It was a question he must ask and this answer was a bitter disappointment he must bear; now he was wasting his chance to convey his affection. He stretched his arm until his side felt about to tear and cupped Javert’s cheek.  “Ja-- Monsieur…” he choked out, but the guard stood up abruptly.

“Do you want more water?” Javert asked, and when Valjean shook his head, he said: “Remember not to talk to a guard without permission… even if you are asking for permission, 24601.” And just like that, he was gone, taking with him all the light in the room.  

The next morning Valjean shouted to the _eprouvés_ who removed his chains that he was willing to fight; immediately he received care from a nurse, larger food rations and even a candle.  But Javert never again spoke with him alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We must express our gratitude to LordofLies, with whom we had a very helpful conversation.
> 
> Penal Code 1795 PREMIÈRE PARTIE - Titre Premier - Article 17  
> “The product of his labor will be used as follows: A third will be applied to the common expense of the house; on some of the other two-thirds will be allowed the prisoner to get better food; the surplus will be reserved for remittance to him at the time of his release, after the time of his sentence expired.
> 
> Burial of convicts in Toulon:  
> http://www.varmatin.com/article/actualites/toulon-la-trace-de-l%E2%80%99ancien-cimetiere-de-la-porte-royale-a-ete-retrouvee.490587.html


	26. Troubled Conscience

Javert walked back to the guards' dormitories at the end of his shift, his back ramrod straight and insistent that his aching leg keep up through the pain barrier. A lame guard was a weak guard, an opportunity convicts would not hesitate to exploit for their advantage. Usually he welcomed the charged atmosphere of the dormitory where the musty smell of snuff and feet were an integral part of the air; it was usually a place where he could relax just a little bit, walk around in his stockings to allow his feet to breathe, but not today. This time just as he hung his boots onto the hook under his shelf, the guard everyone called “Le Fumeron" for the ever-present cigarette butt dangling from his lips kicked in the door and staggered into the room.

 

Merely half an hour had passed since the shift change and Le Fumeron had already managed to get himself thoroughly drunk. Javert shook his head in disappointment and turned away. He suspected that his neighbor had again begun drinking while still on duty, but this crime was almost inconsequential compared to all the others he knew about. He changed into his nightgown, hung up his uniform jacket and left the rest of his neatly folded clothes on his shelf; all the while Le Fumeron pointed at the small stack of writing paper also on the shelf and laughed hysterically.

 

“Eh, Javert, now that you’ve read through the Code you’re ready to write some of your own?” Le Fumeron sputtered, turning so red in the face that Javert thought maybe he would stop breathing and drop dead.  

 

Javert knew the simple truth that there was no use in talking sense to a drunkard. “The French laws were written by the Council of the Five Hundred, not by me,” he said, emotionless as if not at all bothered by the comment even though, for once, he really was. He wondered whether malicious rumors about what happened in the _cachot_ were already being spread through dolts like Le Fumeron who parroted words without thinking, just like it worked out on the streets. When enough people said the same thing, lies can obfuscate reality; this unfortunate fact was why judges needed to be very educated and raised in good families, so they could figure out that sometimes the man who stood alone was the victim, not the criminal. Bitterness consumed him now because he still needed to worry about this sort of nonsense; he thought he had successfully escaped his prior life years ago. Time was of the essence, he must submit a report to the _Commissaire_ immediately but he didn’t know the relevant protocols nor which parts of what happened where crimes. Solitaire’s existence in itself seemed to him a crime against justice.

 

The Regulations of the _Bagne_ he knew by heart were mainly rules for the convicts not the guards, and he had gone too long without sleep - not a single minute since the assault - to want to copy from the _Pénal Code_ at the common table now, in plain view of Le Fumeron who was busy laughing himself to tears.

 

In just a few hours he would need to report to duty again, he reminded himself as he laid down on his side and pulled his blanket over his eyes.

 

After a few moments the comforting warmth began to ease the pain in his leg but not the pain in his mind; he relived his shame without any respite, still feeling the drag of Solitaire’s cudgel across his abdomen and the cut of the rope into his wrists. He defended himself against this relentless onslaught with abrupt turns of his body, latching onto any and all sensory input which could make it stop, even just for a moment. Soon the stagnant air under the blanket grew sultry and musky from his sweat and his thoughts turned to how 24601 reeked, how cell three reeked even by Toulon standards, how the odor from the convict’s filthy red smock was suffocating when he breathed it in. One moment he felt disgust and the next moment it had gone, almost as swiftly as his reflex had conjured it, even though it was fully justified. The convict had paid enough attention to learn his name and apparently thought him to be “very dear”, but then only asked only an administrative question, not for him to actually do anything. Inexplicable.

 

24601 was clearly in pain but did not utter a single word about it; this was something Javert appreciated because a man should never complain of discomfort. All he had wanted to do was to lead the convict to the fountain, sit him down, and clean him. Nothing in any rules said a convict had the right to be clean, so why did he want to clean 24601?  No reason. He only did not want 24601 to remain dirty, that was all. In the process he would be able to see how badly the convict had been beaten before he was left to die alone in the _cachot_.  

 

Now he felt he had left something unfinished, and that he could not give into the temptation to sleep.

 

He himself had explained to 24601 what the legal sentences were for crimes, it was only a day ago when he spoke of how all deaths must be by guillotine. _The death penalty will consist in the mere deprivation of life, and there will never be exercised any torture of prisoners._ What was done to 24601 was torture, something even the most vile murderers would not be sentenced to. 24601 had admitted he was a thief, and showed remorse.

 

He clenched his jaws as he wept, to stay silent. It was far easier when all he had to worry about was a bucket of water; he only had to worry about it staying hot and clean while he delivered it to the correct person. What did it mean that he was now a guard?  Convicts were supposed to be state property, and If this one, Jean Valjean, was a convict meant to go to some place after his release, was it a guard's duty to make sure he could get there safely?  Make sure that he served his rightful sentence, nothing more and nothing less.

 

If all of these convicts were simply buckets of water everything would be so much easier, but a bucket of water would never look at him that way. A bucket of water would not die because he was too much of a coward to crawl out from under his blanket.

 

Le Fumeron, who had collapsed onto his bed wheezing, stomped his feet in exasperation laughter gripped him yet again when Javert pulled his copy of the _Pénal Code_ off the shelf and carried it to the table along with his stack of writing paper. In an attempt to ignore the drunken man Javert contemplated for a moment whether 24601 would find his current behavior equally hilarious.

 

He flipped through the pages but it was difficult to focus on the words when his mind was still in the _cachot_ , remembering the weight and warmth of 24601’s hand on his back. The reports he used to write took a long time but they were simply a list of true events; it was never his place to interpret the events, only to describe what happened truthfully, in words. He could do the same now.  

 

“ _Monsieur le Commissaire du Bagne à Toulon,_ ” he began, and was pleased that at least the opening line was not too difficult, _“Adjutant guard Javert is here reporting on a crime committed in the cachot cell 1 on Monday morning of October 19, 1798. The Chef de Salle known as Solitaire, with several lower ranking guards as accomplice, is putting convicts’ lives in danger. When I tried to keep the convict 24601 alive they assaulted me by force and committed a crime on my person which was not rape..._

 

_I am the victim and I will now describe the actions….”_

 

Javert wiped the sweat from his hand; the pen slipped through his fingers as he tried to describe in detail the events. It was his duty to be rigorous, and his embarrassment mattered little. He already could not find the name for the crime so every piece of minutia mattered. He filled four pages before he was able to mention the convict, not because that was less important but because he had no information to report.

 

_“All convicts here in the Bagne deserve to perform labor for the state because of the crimes they have committed and should not complain of their work conditions...”_

_“...but their lives should not be in danger because none of them were sentenced to the guillotine. In my humble opinion the situation in cachot cell 3 requires your urgent attention.”_

_Tuesday eight in the morning of October 20, 1798_

_Signé: Adjutant guard Javert"_

 

It was now that time after dawn when a strange calm settled in the room, broken only by the snoring of exhausted men and the light filtering through the window; even Le Fumeron had fallen into slumber. Javert settled the blotter on the last page while reading the rest of his report. He felt it was difficult to believe even for himself. The _Commissaire_ may react to his letter the same way Chélan reacted to his report, and if he did then Javert would go back to being nothing more than just the son of a convict. But 24601 believed that he was innocent, and perhaps the captain would also.   

 

With still a few sheets of paper left over, Javert picked up his pen again and wrote to the person who was everything he wanted to be, not a letter but a confession, of every way in which he had failed with the honesty of a man standing trial.

 

_“Captain of the Chaîne Thierry:_

_“I have seen things which convinced me a convict was more honest than a lot of the guards. For this thought alone, I should be dismissed. I am certain a convict had been tortured under my watch, and the guilty guards have incriminated me. Those guards’ mouths belong to them and they will say whatever they say, but not a single word of it could change the truth: I never neglected my duty. If you would allow me back, Captain, I would carry your water for the rest of my life._

_Tuesday quarter to nine in the morning of October 20, 1798_

_Signé: Javert”_

 

\---

 

When both letters were dried and sealed, he left the dormitory with them in his pocket. On his way to the Administrative building he ignored all the eprouvés he passed and who offered to help: no, his report was far too important and had to be delivered by his own hand. He waited at the door of the _Commissaire_ with his eyes downcast and allowed his body to get as much rest as it could while rigidly upright.

 

Eventually a middle-aged man in uniform came out of the office next door and announced himself to be the _Secrétaire du Commissaire_ , then offered to deliver the report for him. Up to that time he had not seen the _Comissaire_ ’s door open even once, so he relented, even though he suspected that the _Secrétaire_ was more interested in getting the Navy sergeant who guarded the _Comissaire_ ’s door to stop cursing.

 

On his way back he put the letter to Captain Thierry in the outgoing mailbox and crawled back underneath the covers, dizzy with fatigue. When he first met the Captain he was just a thirteen year old boy who repaired one of the cook’s pots. He closed his eyes and urged his body to rest with the knowledge that he had done everything he could.  

 

He still remembered the day when the Captain spoke to him for the first time with clarity which barely diminished with time. He followed the Captain on a long walk across the Pont au Change, and he glanced between the stone balusters supporting the long rail; the Seine was quiet beneath the series of arches. The spring rains had just given way to the first heat of summer.

 

The Captain made sporadic comments as if giving a guided tour, and he had learned that only a handful of years ago this bridge was full of houses and those houses were huge stores. He was a homeless child who could appreciate any form of shelter, but still he found the idea of living over a bridge to be an eccentric one. The man who walked a few steps ahead of him wore a deep blue uniform and a dress sword hanging from his belt, which swung every time one of the Captain’s boots sent a loose rock skittering across the uneven cobblestone surface.

 

The Captain slowed when they came to the end of the bridge and the _L'île de la Cité_ unfolded before him in all its monumental splendor; the people passing through the streets were well-dressed, just as the buildings were clean and breathtakingly ornate.

 

 _This is where the convicts are sentenced._ Captain Thierry pointed to a gate with gold inlay which opened into a huge plaza. They entered. The plaza was deserted and the smooth paved ground was discolored; he thought it must have been a mess leave by those counter-revolutionaries being sent by the dozens to the guillotine and looked past it to the majestic building on the opposite end. _What are you looking at, boy?_ He sensed no irritation in the Captain’s voice, and his heart was filled with wonder.   

 

 _That bird perched atop the column must be an eagle, Captain, but that great dog with a large beard sitting at the door_ \- His hair fell across his face and he brushed it aside - _I do not know it._

 

_That is a lion, boy, the king of the beasts._

 

He followed when the Captain laced his hands behind his back and ascended the marble steps, even though he found this fancy Palais to be neither welcoming to those of his station nor the perfection it appeared to be from afar. He stepped around all the still wet stains grotesque and red against white background. The marble skin of the lion was mottled with them; where they covered both eyes of the animal the intense red was still slightly glistening. The Captain frowned.

 

 _This morning there must have been a stoning._ There was an undertone of sadness in the Captain’s voice. _Boy, if you work for me I need you to understand that _stonings like this and_ the way people are being sent to the guillotine without a proper trial, it is not justice._

_Yes Captain._ Perhaps the Captain did not like this lion but he liked it very much.

 

_We do our duty and with time everything will be fixed._

_Yes Captain._

 

_..._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CODE PÉNAL du 6 octobre 1791- Première Partie. Titre Premier  
> Article 2: “ La peine de mort consistera dans la simple privation de la vie, sans qu'il puisse jamais être exercé aucune torture envers les condamnés.” 
> 
> http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pont_au_Change


	27. The Fight

Javert woke up early on Saturday afternoon and waited around the stairway which led down to the _cachots_. Over the past few days he had pieced together enough information he overheard to expect that 24601 will be taken away before he began his shift, and his fears were soon proven correct when two eprouvés emerged with the chained convict between them.

 

This could only mean that the fight some of the other guards were discussing with great eagerness was the same one 24601 said he was forced to fight in. It would happen in the early afternoon on Sabbath, and with less than a day to go he still had not been summoned by the _Commissaire_ for questioning; during his shift he read Article 2 of the Pénal Code again and again in between patrols, hoping for a last minute intervention. In the end his shift, the night shift, proved to be quite uneventful, but neither of the guards who checked in at the shift change were the usual ones - they had taken their shift off, along with Solitaire, presumably to do something related to the fight.

 

He hurried to the dormitories and found the two of them just as they left the room he would move into in a few days, dressed in nice civilian clothes. What had he to lose?

 

Still in full uniform he followed those two guards who assaulted him inside the _cachot_ \- his attempts at stealth were laughable and clumsy at best, but sufficient to remain unseen by two who were drinking and engaged in conversation. They exited the _Bagne_ into the Navy base everyone referred to as _L’ Arsenal_ , but did not continue out the main gate to the city. His uniform attracted hostile looks from soldiers of the navy but thankfully the guards ahead of him were too drunk to pay attention, and even if they did notice that they were being followed, he already recognized a few other guards from the _Bagne_ walking in the same direction.

 

They stopped at the construction site behind the Tower of _L’Horloge_ and entered the building. The museum that this was planned to be was clearly not finished but the sailor at the door demanded from everyone in line an entrance fee of five sous anyway.

 

“Is this the fee to see the fight?” he asked, but the sailor chewing on a wad tobacco merely gave his uniform a look of contempt and spit noisily onto the ground. Not far ahead François looked back over his shoulder in surprise. He looked even fatter now wearing civilian clothes.

 

He began to wander in the audience and found himself on the receiving end of much derision from almost everyone in the audience: people who seemed regular citizens, guards he recognized from the _Bagne_ , and many soldiers of the navy. It was unusual for a guard to leave the _Bagne_ for entertainment while still wearing the uniform, but he was not here for fun. He looked around and quickly realized that his was the only uniformed prison guard who was on the premises.

 

"Is that the only shirt you wear?” Members of the public recognize and despise the guard uniform, and that turned out to be an unplanned for blessing because they invariably allowed him a wide berth; as he walked the dense crowd split in front of him as if parted by an invisible force. The men who tried to insult him verbally were young, close to his age and half drunk. “You want to fight, _garde-chiourme_?” one of them challenged, giving him a hard shove on his shoulder. Javert decided to ignore them, knowing that a discussion with them may only attract more of their fellow citizens or even some of the the older and trained soldiers who were impatient for the fights to begin.

 

He studied his surroundings. Sailors and civilians alike had climbed atop the high and flimsy scaffolding along the walls where they foolishly sat to share laughter and liquor bottles. A fall from that height could kill a man. Not far from where he was, a handful of eprouvés, some of whom regularly worked in _cachots_ had amassed a significant amount of stone blocks. With surprising diligence, they proceeded to cover them with wooden planks. The result was a spacious elevated platform which was visible from anywhere inside the building.

 

But he had no time to lose, he had come in order to memorize the names and faces of the guards involved, to provide adequate information to the _Commissaire_ when the time came. After the stage was completed, the _eprouvés_ placed benches around it on all sides, and these soon were filled by the audience. Although most of the men who sat down seemed to be wealthy bourgeois from the city, dressed in clothing of good quality, there were also many marines in full uniform, as was mandatory for soldiers. Just in a single glance he saw a lieutenant-braided uniform and even a couple of decorated captains with ribbons on their chests; the marine uniforms were beautifully ornamental and tailored to look impressive to the public, whereas the uniform of the prison guards were minimalist and only meant to contrast them from the convicts. Perhaps this was why even the high ranking officers of the _Bagne_ were in civilian clothes, and he had no trouble recognizing the familiar faces of Chélan, the _Chef des Defilés_ and, of course, Solitaire, amongst others.

 

The fact that he found even the _Chef des Defilés_ , an officer of the rank above _Chef des Salles_ , in attendance sapped Javert’s hopes; he felt a creeping, nauseating emptiness. How high up the ranks did the corruption go?  

 

He stood for a moment to watch the fight which started almost immediately. Two sailors were introduced on stage barefoot; they began to circle each other and then the kicks and open palm strikes began. Oddly both of them placed a hand on the ground for balance when delivering kicks, but still more than half the kicks struck only air and many of those which actually landed were poorly aimed. He had nearly lost interest when one kick finally landed and then, the full audience in the building suddenly burst to life as they shouted in unison, “ONE!” Javert felt the floor shake beneath the soles of his boots and nearly raised his cudgel in fright at the unexpected and deafening roar.

 

During the relative calm between two counts Javert noticed that the clamor was stronger on the left end of the building where a large crowd gathered, many with arms raised. He rose on his toes and with his height was able to make out the bulk of Le Gros François without much effort. This commotion seemed to him as good as anything else to watch for information and he walked towards it; as he got close enough he saw that the crowd was actually handing pieces of paper and coins to Poches, who was in the middle of all the activity and shouting, barely visible.

 

“TWO!”

 

Javert listened to the conversation happening next to him when the volume died down enough. "I tell you that if you bet on Florin, you will lose your money. That guy is a dunce," a man said, and to which his annoyed companion responded, "You wish! A month ago he won me twenty francs! Don’t expect me to buy you a drink when he wins again tonight!"

 

Ahead and off to his other side he saw that there was a separate crowd from the one around Poches, smaller and slightly less raucous. "Hey, look at that beast that was brought in today... I don’t think he can last four blows!” he heard a man say, and saw that he was gesturing towards the wall where one of the structural beams stood, in the center of the crowd.

 

He walked closer and when the crowd parted he saw that 24601 was tied to the base of the beam with a rope around his neck. The convict’s hands were cuffed together and nothing remained of the chain he wore but the ring around his ankle. The restraints did not allow him to maintain a fully erect posture, and 24601 stood with his head hanging against his chest while two curious members of the audience poked and prodded his limbs.

 

A young man curled his bicep and held it up against 24601 for comparison. “What a large arm, maybe it can absorb a few hits.”  

 

“ONE! - THREE!!!”

 

The crowd erupted into cheers and laughter, with a smattering of appreciative applause.  

 

“This one is not as tall as the last one, but…” an older man wearing a fancy velvet jacket said, and ignoring 24601's glare filled with hatred, put a fist into the convict’s chest, “quite sturdy.” Javert suspected this one was the father, and he watched as the four _Bagne_ guards standing next to the convict shooed both father and son away. At least 24601’s life was not in danger, Javert thought as he turned away. He had not found much of the action he’d seen from the stage to be impressive, and even the combatants did not seem to take the fights too seriously; most fights ended on the count of three with at most bruises or a split lip. He would be shocked if 24601 could not survive such a fight, even if his injuries had not fully healed… but clearly Dijon and all the other guards did not think so.

 

“Four hits Poches! Four hits because I saw him in fights in the yard before!!” Dijon screamed from the back of the line, arousing a round of curses. “Four hits, do you hear me?!” And then, with the fury of a dense and dark cloud breaking into storm, everyone suddenly started shouting to increase their placed bets by one or two hits.

 

  
“ _Putain de merde_ , no changing bets!!” Poches yelled back, shaking his fist at Dijon because even a deaf man could understand a threatening gesture. “Only new bets and food purchases!” 

 

Le Fumeron’s alcoholic breath hit Javert’s face when he got near Poches. "Eh, Javert, out cheating on your _Pénal Code_! Hell, I could have sworn that you didn’t have blood in your veins and now I see you among normal people." His laugh carried a pungent odor, a stinging mix of snuff and alcohol. "Hurry up, the real fights just started!"

 

Javert took another glance at the stage to appease his curiosity and found that just as before two combatants were circling. Compared to the larger, slightly overweight sailors he saw before these fighters were muscled, lean, and very agile on their feet. If this was a fight it was a very odd and cautious one, because neither combatant made attempts to get into range to deliver a punch or a slap. But suddenly, so quick that he could have missed it if he blinked at the wrong time, one of them darted in with a quick step and landed a solid kick into the upper chest of his opponent, causing him to stagger backwards several steps. Javert braced himself for the thunderous count but the only words he could distinguish in the roar were a few choice curse words uttered in tones of admiration. The kick was highly skilled but so was the evasive action; Javert saw that if the one who was hit wasn’t alert, the kick would have landed on its intended target: the throat. It could easily have been a lethal blow.

 

The combatants settled back into their prior pattern of circling and Javert wondered whether 4607 had taken kicks just like this in the head just a week ago, maybe repeatedly, and that this was why the convict had gone mad. "Why is there no count?” he asked Fumeron. “When do these fights end?" He could no longer assure himself that the worse 24601 would suffer was the humiliation.

 

"Are you French?” Fumeron stumbled slightly while struggling to light the cigarette butt moistened by saliva. When he received nothing but silence in response, he shrugged. "The counts were only for the duels over who takes the wife or who has more honor, _merde_ like that... that shit was just _Chausson_ sailors do for sport, and they end in three hits."

 

Javert found these rules of combat to be ridiculous, almost as much as the reasons why these men fought. A stay in the dark alleys of Paris would have cured them of such an unprofitable hobby. “And these fights?” he prompted, impatient for the answer to the more important question.

 

“These end when one person surrenders… umph!!” a wide-eyed expression of surprise on Fumeron’s face made Javert follow his gaze to the stage, just as a combatant landed in the first row of benches limp and lifeless, like a sack of beans. The man was rendered unconscious before he even hit the ground. “Aren’t these _Savate_ fights much better?!” Excited words were shouted into his ear along with a blast of steamy breath, “I love those flying kicks and knees!”

 

Javert was still stunned and was looking in the direction of 24601 when Fumeron grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him to where Poches was still accepting bets. His colleague looked at him with eyes slightly unfocused. “Have you placed your bets? No?"

 

“What?” Javert asked. Both question and answer were drowned by a round of cheers for the new pair of combatants.

 

  
"Let's bet before the big fight-- " Fumeron shouted into Javert’s ear after he tugged on the taller man’s sleeve to get him to lower his head. “ _Savate_ master versus convict!"  

 

 


	28. What is Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some critical character interactions in 25 had been edited, and though we recommend a re-read especially if you found it confusing the first time, the outcome does not change.

Fumeron’s stoic companion turned to face him with an abruptness which made the drunk man stagger backwards in surprise. " _Merde_. Why would a Savate master fight against a convict?” Javert hissed.

Pleased by this show of interest Fumeron laughed heartily then began a long and rambling response while they waited their turns: “To establish a reputation, to attract students! His new _Savate_ school could use more youngsters with spare coins, I guess. Only convicts are willing to risk a fight with him, especially since he started killing on stage to show off... there are things people won’t do no matter how much money! Have a drink!”

Javert pushed the open bottle Fumeron offered away. “ _Non_! They are not volunteers! Why would you think that?”

“They are! They told me, I used to offer them a warm-up drink before the fight… trust me, I know!” Fumeron ignored Javert’s attempts at protest and pulled two gold coins from his waistcoat pocket. “To celebrate your coming out, I will place the same bet as you! How many hits can that convict… 24…” he squinted to make out the rest of the number, “..6.. 01, 24601 last before he collapse?”

“You do not believe me,” Javert said. It was neither a complaint nor an attempt to arouse sympathy, it was simply a statement of fact. “Poches,” he called with raised voice to the guard, and still it took him a few attempts before he was able to capture the latter man’s attention amidst the increasingly frantic shouts. “Do you know 24601 was forced to fight?”

“ _C'est quoi cette merde_?!” Poches cursed in response. “Gypsy go back and read your _Pénal Code_ if you are not placing a bet!”

Fumeron shoved an elbow into his ribs. “Good. Now just call out a number and how many _francs_!” he encouraged. “Come on!”

Javert set his jaw and nodded his head almost imperceptibly. "It's not about picking the winner?" he asked.

Fumeron looked Javert up and down as if he came from a different planet. "Do you really think a convict has a chance to win against a _Savate_ master? That's because you have not seen him fight. My advice: pick a low number."

“One _franc_." Javert held out his coin and declared calmly, “Zero hits." The commotion died down around him, so much so that Javert was able to hear Fumeron’s cigarette butt hit the ground. Soon, everyone seemed to be laughing. Fumeron dropped his head into his hands. “When I said a low number, I didn’t mean zero…” he moaned.

"... _Excusez-moi_?” a man put a hand on Javert’s shoulder, barely able to voice his disbelief. “The convict will collapse on his own… like, from a heart attack?”

“ _Non_. Zéro hits. 24601 will not collapse.”

Poches raised an open hand to silence the confused man lest he actually gets Javert to clarify further and immediately confirmed the terms. "If you win, I'll give you... two hundred _francs_ ," he said as he made the note in his ledger. Then he shrugged and muttered, “ _Mon Dieu_ , sometimes I wonder whether that hat is hiding an empty skull… Next! Two more minutes, remember to place your bets and buy your food! Bean and salted herring stew!”  

“Damn, I will only lose one _franc_ …” Fumeron muttered as he picked up the cigarette butt and placed it back between his lips. He offered his coin and called out dejectedly, “Me too, one _franc_ and zéro hits.”

“Two hundred _francs_ for you also.”

Javert pocketed his receipt and walked out from the center of the jeering crowd. He was followed by Fumeron, who was now in a much more somber mood. “Don’t you understand the concept of placing a bet?” he groused between swigs from his bottle. “Put your money on what you think will happen, not what you want to happen or think should happen…”

Javert watched the guards untie 24601 and walk the convict towards the stage. As he began to follow in long, determined strides, he said to the man he left in his wake, “Wouldn’t it be more fun to bet on what is right?”

The crowd got more dense as he approached the stage, but he forced his way through. At some point he noticed that the convict was glaring at him, and that the face turned awkwardly to look back above one shoulder wore an expression of anxiety. Loud cheers and a chant began at the opposite side of the stage when the guards unlocked 24601’s handcuffs and left him in the middle of the elevated platform. While the convict stretched his back and arms, all aching from having been bound for hours, Javert saw the _Savate_ master vault himself onto the shoulder-height stage in a graceful motion.

“Eh, what are you doing?!” Fumeron exclaimed when Javert placed a heavy hand on his shoulder after placing his cudgel onto a corner of the stage; with his other hand also on the stage, Javert jumped and was able to swing his legs onto it. It was not an impressive entrance, but it got the job done. He retrieved his cudgel and strolled to the center of the stage with it tucked under his arm, until he stood in front of 24601.   

“ _Putain_?!” An audience member marvelled, and in his delight made even the word for ‘fuck’ sound pleasing to the ear.     

“Your name is Pisseux? You should not fight a convict who had been forced into this fight, and had been beaten nearly to death only a week ago.” The middle-aged man was rolling up his shirtsleeves, which he wore obscenely unbuttoned most of the way to reveal finely-sculpted chest muscles. The man did not respond but his fans in the audience did; empty bottles and detritus of all kinds rained onto the stage along with calls of “nosy scum!” and the ubiquitous cries of “gypsy!” but Javert kept speaking. “I can see that you do not carry a weapon, _Savate_ Master Pisseux. I assume this means no weapons in this fight just like all the others,” he said, undaunted, and casually tossed his cudgel off of the stage. It landed with a crash and provoked some gasps and curses. “I am closer to your height, and I am not injured.”

“What--?!” 24601 growled. “What are you--”

The _Savate_ master laughed as he cracked his knuckles. “Two are more fun than one,” he said. A collective gasp of anticipation could be heard in the audience. On one of the benches in the first row, a slightly intoxicated Chélan turned to Solitaire next to him and commented, only half-joking, "If these were competitions for biggest balls instead of fights, we wouldn't need convicts anymore, we could just send in the gypsy" - he gestured by cupping both hands - “the Spanish, they call it ‘ _cojones_ ’.”

His companion did not laugh at his joke; instead he glanced at Chélan’s hands then responded dryly, “They were not half as big as you think.” Chélan blanched.

Meanwhile up on the stage a cigarette butt hit Javert’s pants and almost set them on fire. “You were stupid to make that bet, but doing this just to win the two hundred francs is beyond stupid!!” Fumeron shouted, just as the convict on stage attempted to push past the guard in front of him to attack his opponent; “Get out of my way!” he roared. He tried to move around Javert and when that did not work, he tried to push past Javert.  

In front of them the master raised his arms into what seemed like a ready stance and stood onto his toes, as if a loaded spring ready to pounce. “When you are fighting more than one enemy at a time, first thing: do not panic!” he said, projecting his voice out to the crowd. “But do decide which one you prefer to drop first. I see here a convict and a gypsy dressed as a _garde-chiourme_ …” he explained as he dodged a desperate lunge by the convict with no apparent effort, leaping two steps to the side. Javert’s shout of “Halt, 24601!” was ignored as the master continued, “usually deal with the most dangerous first, and in this case I see that the convict is favoring his left side… and the _garde-chiourme_ at least knows to raise his arms for defense.”

“Combattez!!” and audience member shouted loudly. “Combattez!!” The palpable tension in the audience melted away and another round of trash rained onto the stage. “Combattez!!” they demanded, joining the chant.

Solitaire turned his head and saw the _Chef des Defilés_ angrily storming towards him. “ _Putain_!” he cursed under his breath as he stood abruptly to attention, a motion which everyone else on the bench.

“ _Chef de Salle_. Is this idiot someone you hired to act from a script or is he really an adjutant guard?”

Solitaire clenched his teeth. Neither answer was a good one to give to a superior. “This man is a real guard, Javert, and he is making a spectacle of himself.”

“Well then why didn’t you--” the _Chef des Defilés_ turned away from him to address the stage: “Stop! As _Chef des Defilés_ of the _Bagne_ I order this fight to end immediately! Clear the stage!” Suspiciously, the convict was the only person who appeared happy about this sudden development.

“What?!” Pisseux demanded as guard and convict were both rushed off the stage, “I was promised this fight by Solitaire!”

“You already made yourself look good enough,” Solitaire said, as his four lackeys handcuffed 24601 and led him back off the stage. “Tell your students all about how you would have murdered the guard.” He walked quickly to escape the building before the threats of “ _Nique ta mere_!” escalated into violence. He will make the gypsy pay.

Behind him a man could be heard laughing hysterically while reciting the words on his receipt. “24601 will have received zéro hits before he is taken off the stage! Oh, _Mon Dieu_ , I am rich!!!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> founder of Savate's first school (ignore that he is technically 4 at the time of the story ):  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michel_Casseux


	29. Solitaire

 

Appearance was the fabric from which truth was made, and the fabrication of truths was an art Solitaire had mastered to perfection. He had Le Gros François and the _eprouvés_ stay behind and took care of the work while he marched with long, controlled strides immediately back to the cachots, carefully concealing the urgency which drove him on. In this way, he avoided being seen accompanying 24601 into the bagne after the fiasco that afternoon; that would make for both the wrong kind of appearance and the wrong kind of truth.

 

He closed the door to his office and began to flip through the log entries up to the previous week. Reaching for the bottle of ink, he dropped both it and the still open log book onto the ground in a big crash. The black fluid spattered all over not just the page but also the floor, soaking through the sheets and  erasing all the evidence that could incriminate him. Messy accidents happen sometimes, do they not? He tossed the ink blotter through the open door of his stove and thought back to his last conversation with Chélan, who still could not understand the seriousness of the situation.The man held a simplistic view of the world which was amusing,but in situations of danger such as this, Chélan showed his true nature: that of a large, bald, glistening mushroom growing in the shade of a sturdy tree, simply enjoying an easy life.

 

He deposited the log book naturally back onto the currently unattended registration desk; the adjutant on duty could be seen pacing halfway down the corridor. He made himself comfortable on the chair, a bit low for his large frame, as the stomps of four pairs of boots down the steps announced the imminent arrival of his trusted men, along with 24601.

 

A brief look at the convict was enough to make him smirk: yes, everything was still under his control. His error with the gypsy had been incidental, something which would not be repeated.The guard’s young age and the rumor amongst the prisoners that he was not fond of using his cudgel were what made him seem spineless.But Javert had shown the teeth from the first night, when he disobeyed direct orders to enter a cell and give medical attention to a convict -- the same convict 24601 -- Solitaire noted, nodding to himself, whom the gypsy tried to protect this afternoon, even exposing himself to a brutal beating to do it. Everyone saw how the guard had ordered the convict to remain behind him, as if that would keep the convict safe from a _Savate_ master. In this world idiocy truly knew no bounds - no wonder even the man who was only as good as a mushroom did not think much of the gypsy until recently. And what did 24601 do? The convict had made pathetic attempts to attack the _Savate_ master which did no damage whatsoever.

 

He slammed his large hand onto the desk with enough force to make the heavy book clatter against its surface. _Mon Dieu_! He had been more blind than Dijon was deaf. He should have had the gypsy figured out days ago; his guards had told him clearly that the gypsy lost his head only when he was being fucked with fingers. What kind of man needed his ass messed with to cum? Only a tapette.

 

Bah, he thought to himself as he waved off the adjutant who hurried over and returned to his office, why wouldn’t a gypsy, sinful and atheist by nature, be inspired by the depraved behavior on display every day? Too bad no one saw what the gypsy did that night he violated orders to enter the cell, because now he was almost certain that the gypsy did more than just plug the hole in the convict’s head. In the privacy of his office, he leaned back in his seat and ran his thumb over the stubble on his chin. He had to make an example of that gypsy by doing something which prisoners and guards alike would remember for years, whenever they dared to even think of challenging him. He already had enough witnesses and evidence to send Javert away from Toulon, perhaps even bring him before a court. But that would not be enough. He wanted to see Javert in the galleys and now he had the right tool: 24601.

 

" _Eprouvé_!"

 

A gaunt man entered through the door moments later with his head down and shoulders hunched. This perfect picture of submission filled Solitaire with satisfaction. He could almost see Javert cut the same slavish figure in only a few short days.

 

"Bring the adjutant guard Javert. I do not care that you have to get out of bed," he said, waving the _eprouvé_ right back out the door.

 

Solitaire barely had time to straighten up in his seat before a knock sounded on the door announcing the arrival of the adjutant. Realizing that Javert could only get here so quickly because he was already on his way to visit the convict, Solitaire raised his eyebrows not so much in surprise but from the pleasure of knowing that, this time, Javert was making things easier than he had expected. So young and so impatient, unable to even wait the three hours until shift change. He smiled as he called for Javert to enter.

 

The young man who saluted him had bags under the eyes and tense features that betrayed his anxiety under the apparent blank expression.The idiot was an example of perseverance, this Solitaire must admit -- what was the word that Chélan used to define its supposed value? Yes... "cojones"... but it would do little: as a good fishing enthusiast, he knew it easier to pull the fish out of water when it grew tired of fighting the line. And Javert was beyond fatigue.

 

"Adjutant," he made a show of contempt, suddenly glad for the turn that events were about to take. "Tonight is your last night on duty, I hope you enjoy it." He stood up and approached the young man. "On the other hand, I have suspicions that 24601 is unhappy and will be making an escape attempt.”  He moved closer to Javert, enjoying the almost imperceptible jolt the adjutant could not suppress when he had raised his voice unnecessarily. "We all know it's dangerous ... across the yard, exposed to the fire of the sentinels, or a bad fall from a parapet." Now he was so close, he simply whispered into the adjutant’s ear. “Maybe you should go comfort your lover for the last few hours, gypsy.”

 

He had expected some reflexive, possibly violent reaction, but there was only silence. He took a step back to see the guard’s face more clearly, and saw that Javert was fidgeting on his feet, his thick black brows drawn together. “My… lover...?” Javert asked slowly, as if mulling over the meaning of each of the two words as they left his mouth. “No! You are only trying to confuse me so you can harm 24601 and destroy evidence.”

 

Solitaire snort a laugh, a real one for a change. The confusion written on the face of the guard said very clearly that he was not only a faggot but also stupid: the ideal combination for his purposes.

 

Still laughing to himself, he picked up his coat and walked to the building where the senior officers of the bagne had their quarters; Chélan, as agreed, was waiting. He felt delighted to interrupt the dinner of the Premier Adjudant-Chef Martin, a petulant man who hid his lowly origins beneath countless grotesque mannerisms.

 

With his usual professionalism, he apologized for interrupting his superior’s meal and explained that he was having serious problems with one of his guards, whom he had seen receiving sexual favors from a convict within a day of a separate incident where he entered a cachot against orders. Within a week of this guard’s transfer into the cachots many of the convicts seem to have been brutally beaten and had become noticeably more violent. It would be irresponsible for him not to take official action on this guard immediately, even if it were Sabbath night.

 

At first, Martin was irritated and split his attention only between the slowly cooling dish of poulet à la crème on the table and his wife seated across from him, a plump woman and certainly attractive; when he saw the turn the conversation was taking he kindly suggested the woman to excuse them. She passed leaving in her wake a whiff of cologne, and Solitaire struggled to hold back a snort of contempt when he saw his superior, whose hair was kept meticulously razor cut and delicately curled, lean in to place a caring arm around his wife, showing a backside confined in pants simultaneously too thick and too narrow. A sissy fagot, he told himself. Even more disgusting than the gypsy and the convict.

 

“And what is the name of this vile guard, Chef de Salle?”

 

“His name is Javert, Monsieur.”

 

Solitaire hid his disdain and kept talking, now able to go into more detail with the woman gone; next to him Chélan remained silent except when directly questioned. After he went through everything on his list he spurred Chélan to speak with a knowing look, and the man recounted a crazy incident where allegedly Javert reported to duty in Saint-François wearing only a shirt and a sheet, probably from that stupid prank his guards liked to pull. A misconduct, no doubt, but much less significant when compared with the accusations he had just listed. However, this appeared to be the drop that filled the glass and the Premier Adjudant-Chef threw his napkin into the tablecloth - a pitifully effeminate gesture to beat all others - and decided to take action.

 

"Well, gentlemen, I thank you for informing me," his countertenor voice trembled with indignation, "I'll go meet with Monsieur le Secretaire, who is working tonight, after I finish my dinner -” he extended his arm and frilled sleeve in the direction of the door - “ _Adieu_!"

 

Solitaire was relieved to leave the oppressively perfumed room and take in the salt breeze in the yard; the spiderweb had been woven and was almost ready to do its job.He walked casually, pretending to pay attention to the nonsense Chélan was sprouting as they headed towards the guards dormitories to meet Poches, Le Gros François and the two guards who were "witnesses" of Javert’s supposed abhorrent act. Together, they would go in search of the Chef des Défilés and it would be over. The old man would be obliged to inform the Secrétaire, as Martin was, and their versions would coincide. Except for one detail: he was confident that the Chef des Défilés would report on the scandal that Javert had organized during the fight to protect a convict who fought voluntarily. The old man would not dare to say more: he was too involved to want to take that risk. Thus, with the official investigation would be led by an implicated Chef looking to cast blame and the idiot Martin. No doubt he would emerge from his tedious affair unscathed: he might have to endure a scolding for letting a prisoner out without official documentation, but this was not something to worry him.

 

\----

 

The fact that the _Chef des Défilés_ was absent had put him in a bad mood. Where could the old man have gone at dinnertime? Perhaps he had stayed out in the city to frequent the taverns as he did from time to time. This would not matter if an empty cell three was waiting for him, because then he could fire the cannon to signal the escape and the old man would come back on his own. Then they could even meet right in his office. He put his hands behind his back, relishing the thought that the gypsy was on the run now, or trying to, with the convict who was also limping. They have zero chance for escape after half the guards had seen him protect 24601 and others had seen 24601 returned to the _cachot_ locked by key. Javert both had access to them and had time to make use of them, as no doubt the guards who had seen him spend the afternoon in the corridor while off-duty could attest.

 

His smile froze on his lips when he saw a guard sitting on the top step, showing only his back and a long black ponytail, right where he had seen Javert when he left the building. He started down the steps around the guard, but not without placing one of his steps so close that the side of his boot pushed into the uniform-clad buttock. Two steps past and his provocation still went unanswered. He stopped for a moment and chuckled to himself. “What is the matter?” he asked the guard who was undoubtedly listening. “Did even the convict kick you out of the cachot because you are a stinking gypsy?”

 

He heard a soft rustle behind him and turned to see only an ocean of dark blue because Javert had risen to his feet. “Non,” Javert answered, a single syllable in his low and rumbling voice. Solitaire narrowed his eyes and tried to read the expression on the face, but he could only see that Javert was not impressed. “I submitted a report to the Commissaire,” the adjutant said, the tone too emotionless for it to have been a warning but those words really could not mean anything else.

 

Solitaire sank his hand into Javert’s chest and gave it a few heavy pats while he laughed heartily at the ceiling. “Oh, a report to the Commissaire, is that what your convict told you to do?” he mocked, and then the grip tightened with barely suppressed rage, fingertips digging into collar bone.“Let me tell you something: the Commissaire had been sick entire week with dysentery, many convicts also, in the SalleSaint-Sébastien. Maybe we should send 24601 into there, yes?”

 

“Oui, or better, to the hospital.”  When Javert’s gaze focused onto him, Solitaire ascertained that it was nearly sapped of its irritating defiance. This prompted him to reveal his hand: “Me and at least five others also just submitted reports on you.”  

 

Javert broke their eye contact. “The Commissaire will see through all the lies. I no longer want to distract you from your duty, Monsieur,” he said, then slowly sat back down exactly as he was before.

 

Failing to derive the satisfaction he wanted out of that exchange, Solitaire stormed into his office looking for his cudgel and a lamp, and started toward cell three. Perhaps the gypsy set the convict free but was too stupid to run. Or, maybe he could find his satisfaction from a different source.

 

He smiled.


	30. Monsieur le Secretaire du Commissaire Chabouillet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE to readers:  
> While planning for the events of MsM we realized the story will naturally have a big time jump from chapter 33 to chapter 34, and that really chapter 33 is like the end of the first half, almost a complete fic with just a few loose ends. **So we have decided to post reasonably quickly to 33, then take a break from posting while we work on MsM. It will be almost like an intermission. During this break we will temporarily mark the story as complete, just to see if we get more readers. Comments will be not only welcome but extremely helpful.**

The chief of _cachots_ entered to find 24601 standing against the far wall with a hand raised in front of his eyes against the light. So the gypsy was stupid enough to enter a cell against orders but not stupid enough to release his lover -- how unfortunate.

 

"Ah, I see you're lonely. I'm as disappointed as you are, I really was hoping you would be enjoying the company of your friend," he explained in his smooth baritone, then he clicked his tongue, terribly irritated. “I told the gypsy to come tell you how much he loves you but he is just sitting at the top of the stairs… I guess he is waiting for you to make the escape and go meet him?” he shook his head and laughed until the metal lamp housing rattled against its hinges while the flickering light danced across the stone walls. But he was not here to listen to his own laugh; he saw that the convict had lowered his hand in surprise before blinking away from the glare and raising it again - more than enough to prove that the depraved affection was reciprocated.

 

Whenever these animals start caring about more than just what they should - obeying their superiors - it was a God-sent opportunity for some entertainment to break the monotony. He backed across the still open door in a single step and gestured to the two guards sitting at the registration desk to come over and join in the merriment.

 

"I will tell you a story about your friend, I'm sure you'll enjoy it," he said, as he halted the guards just outside the door. "Last week, your gypsy paid 60732 three francs exchange for certain services… I’ll just say... of a pleasurable nature. He needed a little outside help to get into it, ah, maybe because he wanted you instead, yes?  …but you know how I love to help. We tied him up and we kept him quiet -- that part he did not seem to have liked very much..." 24601 had clenched both hands into shaking fists but kept his head down. “Don’t worry, it gets better,” Solitaire said reassuringly before he continued, "Actually, he cried like a girl -- can you imagine? My men said shook his head non-stop and put up quite a struggle against the ropes..."

 

He chuckled; describing the scene this way made him wish he had been in the cell to see it himself! But he kept his eye on the convict, who still had not uttered a single sound but was clearly close to the breaking point: his nostrils flared and his whole body trembled. Solitaire angled his big frame just a little bit to allow the guards behind him line of sight to the convict so they can intervene at the first sign of violence -- he had no need to actually get injured by this one they called Le Cric for the assault charge to stick.   

 

"When 60732 began to suck his cock,” he paused and scratched his beard thoughtfully, “he still didn’t think it was good enough, and my men had to give the lousy _corvette_ some helpful tips," he said vaguely, then gestured to the guards behind him with a tilt of his head.

 

At this, the convict finally met his eyes with ones filled with hate and rage. Solitaire smirked. Just a little more to make him lose control, and then three clubs would fall on him, only to be the prelude to the guillotine. All this under the nose of the gypsy. "Turned out that corvette was not as bad as he appeared, because as soon as he stuck in a few fingers and” - he held up two fingers and demonstrated with an obscene jabbing motion - “oh, how the gypsy squirmed! He enjoyed it so much he shed tears of joy when it was all over... they were tears of joy, yes?” he asked without taking his eyes off of the convict.

 

“Yes _Chef_ , we made sure he got his money’s worth, as you ordered,” answered one of the guards.

 

Solitaire tightened his grip on his cudgel and waited. He watched the convict who seemed about to strike the blow that would seal his fate, but 24601 only took shuddering, deep breaths and kept his eyes down.

 

Solitaire waited until the muscles on his face began to twitch from sustaining the smile which was frozen across it. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of 24601’s lips, but that was all he would get, instead of that pathetic shaved head rolling across the _Bagne_ ’s courtyard.

 

 _Putain_.

 

\---

 

In the _bagne_ ’s courtyard was an unusual sight: _Monsieur le Secrétaire_ Chabouillet hustling somewhere, accompanied by the _Chef des Défilés_. It was a well known fact that Chabouillet lived at his desk in the administration building, and so his passage aroused the curiosity of the guards, who saluted him respectfully as he passed.

 

The _Chef des Défilés_ was holding some papers and, with a red face, pointed at fragments of compact handwriting. “The convict number 60732 took into his mouth the entirety of my quite lengthy engorged penis. I admit that this is difficult to believe because I still don’t understand how he managed it, but I know it to be possible because I have seen my mother do similar things. Monsieur, this is the truth…” the _Chef_ read out loud but then looked up from the documents and waved the pages in disbelief, “What the…!” he raged at his companion, barely able to speak, “ _C'est quoi ce bordel_?!”

 

A few steps ahead of him, Chabouillet shook his head thoughtfully but did not slow down nor even look back over his shoulder. “It is not the language that matters most at the moment. After I handed this to the _Commissaire_ , it sat on his desk for a week.”

 

“You believe this despite the fact that this guard sullied the reputation of our entire institution at the Sabbath fights, just because he was hired by the recommendation of someone you know?” the _Chef_ asked, loud enough to attract looks of displeasure from passersby, but the _Secrétaire_ waved away his complaints with a dismissive flick of his hand.

 

“This guard has an almost empty record in this _Bagne_ , but his report predates yours by a week and  involves the same people. I remind you, _Chef des Défilés_ , you are also implicated even though you chose to be forthcoming about your own involvement.” Chabouillet stilled his swinging dress sword with his hand as he turned abruptly to address the _Chef_ behind him. “Remember the _Premier Adjudant-Chef_ had just left for the city and you are now the second highest ranked man present,” he said, still angered by the lack of professionalism shown by the _Premier_ , “Does the testimony seem untrustworthy to you?”

 

The _Chef_ read in silence for a while, but before long the text once again managed to become so ludicrous he read it out loud almost to convince himself of it: “...He then inserted something out of my sight, possibly a finger, maybe his index finger but more likely his middle finger. It hurt me and I did not want it, but I must confess my guilt for feeling pleasure after approximately three minutes.” The _Chef_ began to laugh through his wide-open mouth in disbelief; he cast a nervous glance to his companion, whose strained expression showed that this was not a joke.

 

“This is ridi--” the _Chef_ choked on his complaint and bent to plant his hands on his knees, besieged by a violent fit of coughs, and this forced the increasingly impatient _Secrétaire_ to stop and wait for him to keep moving. "If I was drinking coffee,” he told his superior as he wiped tears from his eyes, “I would have drenched all these yellow tickets-of-leave in my hand, and would have to release prisoners with brown tickets! This is almost too ridiculous to be faked."

 

Chabouillet nodded. “Yes, I agree, and I can only hope that the _Commissaire_ would have felt the same way if he read this, because though I have the authority to do what I am about to do, it is usually done only with the Commissaire’s consent,” he said with a calmness out of place with the hurried click of his boots against the stone floor of the building containing the convict’s _salles_ , which they had just entered. Two turns and then the stairway down to the _cachots_ were before them. Chabouillet had not been there more than a few occasions, all distant. He descended two steps at a time, and when he made the turn to head down the second flight of stairs leading to the corridor of cells, the _Secrétaire_ nearly tripped over a man sitting on the first step.

 

“Adjutant guard, do not block the walkway,” he snapped, and the young guard stood quickly.

 

The _Chef de Défilés_ had just caught up to them and he cleared his throat to announce his presence before speaking. “He is Javert, _Monsieur le Secrétaire_ ,” he said helpfully, but the _Secrétaire_ was already studying the young guard with interest.

 

Chabouillet cocked his head slightly and smiled: Thierry was still the same fellow who had served with him in the sea, a man who could see beyond the skin color of a person to judge their worth. “Yes, adjutant guard Javert, I remember you,” The _Secrétaire_ said, reaching for documents held by the _Chef des Défilés_ and motioning for him to hand them over. "You gave me this document about a week ago, correct?"

 

"Yes, _Monsieur le Secrétaire_ , for you to give to the _Commissaire_."

 

“There are things I must explain to you later, but for now... adjutant guard, do you swear by what you wrote in your report?” His tone was solemn as the occasion required.

 

The young guard furrowed his thick and black brows, as if unable to understand why such a question was being asked. “Yes, Monsieur,” he responded respectfully, nonetheless.

 

“During this past week did you feel your life was threatened?”  

 

Javert considered his answer carefully. “No, Monsieur, but...”

 

“Speak.” Chabuillet could not help but think that Thierry had done a good job forming this young man, as evidenced by the impeccable behavior on display, not at all what he expected given the crude wording of his report.

 

“Monsieur, the convict 24601 had been forced to fight earlier today. The _Chef des Défilés_ was also present.”

 

“The _Chef_ already reported to me about the fight. Javert, kindly lead us to the _cachot_ where 24601 is being held.”

 

“Yes, cell three, Monsieur.” Javert adjusted his uniform and flew into motion, “… but I do not know whether he was returned to the same cachot since the fight,” he said.

 

The wood door at the bottom of the steps yielded to Javert’s key, and all three were startled by the sight of a wide open door at near the end of the hallway, with two guards stationed on either side of it. “That one is cell three, Monsieur…” Javert blurted out just as the guards turned abruptly to them. Solitaire's head poked out from the cell.

 

"Is there a problem, _Chef_?” Chabouillet called out as he hurried over. He was not the most familiar with the daily operations of the cachots, but surely only an extremely serious situation such as a convict having died in the cachot would require the _Chef_ plus both guards to be at one cell?

 

To his surprise, Solitaire walked casually out from the _cachot_ and responded, somewhat sheepishly, “No, _Monsieur le Secrétaire_ , just checking on a violent convict. Are you visiting to confirm what I told _Premier Adjudant-Chef_ Martin?”

  
In but a split second Chabouillet had made up his mind. “Yes, amongst other things,” he replied in a measured tone. “ _Chef de Salle_ : you will wait for me in your office." 

 

When they reached the cell Javert remained in the hallway to allow Chabouillet to enter, and the _Secrétaire_ was able to see a man of average height, terribly dirty and bruised. The convict kept his head down, though occasionally his tired eyes flitted upwards and out the open door.

 

"24601?" The prisoner nodded mutely. "You have been forced by the _Chef de Salle_ to participate in a fight against your will, through an illegal beating? Speak."

 

"Yes, Monsieur."

 

"Open your smock, I need to see your wounds," he ordered, and the convict diligently obeyed. The signs of week-old heavy bruising were obvious but Chabouillet knew that this was not sufficient to prove that the _Chef_ was guilty of the charges; however, the fact that this convict was not in the hospital definitely required a thorough explanation. Engrossed in thought, Chabouillet had not bothered to study the convict’s expression; If he did he would have found suffering and hope in equal measure, and if he had looked behind him, he would have found a look of satisfaction on the face of the young adjutant guard.

 

\---

 

After a brief -- at most fifteen minutes, if even that -- meeting in the _Chef_ ’s sweltering oven of an office, Chabouillet had had enough. Not only did the _Chef_ claim that he was as shocked by 24601’s injuries as anyone else, he also insisted with a perfectly straight face that there was nothing suspicious about a convict volunteering for a fight with those injuries. He admitted his guilt in allowing a convict to leave the _bagne_ , but he had done that only because he was ordered by the _Chef des Défilés_. And then Javert was responsible for everything else, even instances of rape against convicts which Chabouillet was not aware of. He excused himself after informing the _Chef_ that he will be sending all injured convicts to the hospital.  

 

" _Chef des Défilés_!” he called as he stepped back out into the much cooler corridor - “Go check the cells.” He was eager to return home, where he knew his wife would still be waiting for dinner. As injured convicts were being lead out of their cells to be attached to a _boulet_ , Chabouillet noticed that Javert was still standing in the same place and called him over.

 

“Thierry told me about you,” he said, and saw that the young guard was surprised and moved, just by the mention of his friend’s name. “Speaking of which, it must have been at least a full month since he last stopped by… yes, it is soon December. He should be arriving in a week or two with another _Chaîne_.” He paused to allow for a response, because he was curious to hear what Javert had to say about his friend, but Javert remained silent. Chabouillet continued, “You skipped five ranks when you submitted a report to the _Commissaire_. In this case you were justified to skip at least some of those ranks because several men directly above you were involved, but… things would have happened faster if you didn’t go all the way to the _Commissaire_. I know in the _Chaîne_ you reported directly to Thierry, so this is something he may not have been able to teach you.”

 

“Yes Monsieur,” Javert responded just as an overjoyed and obviously deranged convict wearing the number 4607 latched onto his arm and watched his ponytail with almost insatiable fascination. Chabouillet was puzzled by this behavior, but still, he smiled. The _Chef des Défilés_ had finished with the _cachots_ and ended up with four convicts to take to the hospital, none of whom appeared permanently injured. This was worse than he had hoped but not half as bad as he could imagine.

 

After he ordered the _Chef_ to depart with the convicts, the _Chef_ turned to Javert as he passed and elbowed the guard teasingly in the ribs. “I read your report, adjutant, but next time be more modest when talking about your length,” he advised with a sly, conciliatory smile.

 

To this peaceful entreaty Javert responded deferentially, “It is quite lengthy because it is lengthier than most that I see at the fountains, Monsieur,” which set the _Chef_ off muttering under his breath: “Damn gypsy…” while he trudged up the steps, convicts in tow.

 

Chabouillet chuckled and thought to himself that this Javert definitely spent too many of his formative years near convicts. Nevertheless, “Starting immediately you will work under _Chef de Salle_ Médard in the _Salle des Indociles_ , for an independent evaluation. He is a good man, a model officer who manages to make the room with the most difficult convicts the least eventful room,” he told Javert.

 

“Yes Monsieur,” Javert accepted without complaint.

 

“I will summon you for questioning later. If you need to speak more about this case, come to me directly. Do you have any other evidence to submit?”

 

“Yes Monsieur,” Javert said again, and produced out of his pocket a small slip of paper which he handed to the _Secrétaire_. “This is a betting ticket from the convict’s fight. Many other guards bet on the fight also.”

 

The hastily-written text made Chabouillet frown with effort in his reading: “Two hundred _francs_ … zero hits… Poches.” The entire pool of bet money will be confiscated as illegal earnings, but if one of the winning bets really was made by a victim of sexual assault… then the Bagne’s treasury could certainly spare this negligible sum to at least provide some consolation. Sometimes rules must be worked around to set things right. He turned back to the impassive young man next to him. “If the _Chef des Défilés_ ’ testimony is to be trusted, you just won two hundred _francs_.”

 

“I had not thought about this, Monsieur.”

 

Chabouillet marveled at Javert’s aloofness which he suspected may actually be almost inhuman composure, and recalled with a pang of guilt how Thierry once described a boy with a pair of shoes dangling from his neck like a pair of medals. If this young man just had his innocence corrupted by a convict, could this be a defense mechanism? He placed a hand onto Javert’s shoulder. “Don’t spend it all on a pair of shoes this time, adjutant guard,” he advised, and watched with a sense of fulfillment as the dark-skinned guard smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are interested, the ranks in Toulon are:
> 
> adjudant-garde (lowest)  
> garde  
> Chef des Salle (chief of a room)  
> Chef des Defiles (chief of the ranks... )  
> Premier Adjudant-Chef (almost like a chief executive officer... kind of like an internal police)  
> Secretaire du Commissaire (deputy/secretary to the head)  
> Commissaire


	31. Their paths diverge again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hauntingly beautiful chapter was masterminded by groucha and _merde_ it is amazing. Please give her a round of applause. --fengxiaoj

The clangs echoed through his flesh and crept up his bones.

The unforgiving hammer flattened the new central rings being joined to the chain on Valjean’s scarred ankle, disfiguring them even as it closed them. It was only a couple of days ago that he had heard the news: Patou would serve the rest of his days in the _Salle des Indocile_ s, where he would remain chained to his bed, barely able to speak or move. And then, as if some physical switch had been thrown, the _Saint-François_ suddenly was brimming with all the gossip which were never spoken in Patou’s presence; convicts discussed over beans how Patou was lucky to receive his life sentence because he had murdered his own wife, and only a lack of proof for his intent to kill kept him from a trip to the _guillotine_. Le Cric felt a twinge of pain but it was brief: to him it would be better for the old fox to be dead than kept alive and made to suffer through a life no longer worth living.  He was being joined to a new knight now, a terribly young boy with cold eyes and a green cap atop his head; this was all he knew as they had not even traded names yet, but Valjean felt as if he already learned of this boy’s entire life. This boy had come to serve a life sentence before having had time to live.

The boy smiled at him, seemingly eager for conversation, but Le Cric stared into the empty space next to him instead. At the end of everything, he had returned to the _Saint-François_ and Javert had not. Perhaps the _Secrétaire_ had placed Solitaire under arrest and Javert was still working in the _cachots_ \-- he had no way to know because he had only seen Javert once, just once, and that was out in the docks, far too many days ago.

 ---

 

It had happened a day shortly after his release from the hospital; that morning he had been happy to drag his _boulet_ with him to the crane and feel the rough texture of the sturdy ropes in the exertion of his muscles as he moved the stone blocks. The simple repetitive motion of pulling and then releasing did not require much effort from his still recovering body, and his mind was able to take in everything around him, a world rich with wood, metal and machine, so filled with life and color and so easy to appreciate after the dark void of the _cachot._   But this was only the morning.  When it was almost noon he had noticed Javert walking without his cudgel, and he smiled at the thought that the guard seemed awkward with his steps, as if for the first time walking without a purpose. He had followed Javert’s movements as he worked, ecstatic over the presumptuous idea that the guard had come to visit him, because why else would Javert happen to be just meters away in this huge dock, and still be walking closer?

The guard who everyone knew as Fumeron - prisoners were not encouraged to know their real names - walked up to Javert and smiled as he gave the younger guard a friendly slap on the shoulder, but this did not earn him much of a response beyond a startled look in return.

The November breeze carried to Valjean pieces of their conversation, punctuated by echos of Fumeron’s hearty laughter. "You see? You're a cheater, but you won two hundred _francs_ , and you made me win...! … Zero hits, what a crazy idea! Defending the convict was such a good and profitable idea… should have bet ten _francs_ for 24601,... eh ... _Putain!_ I wonder how you come up with these ideas..."  Fumeron said as he held his cigarette in his fingers and laughed with his mouth wide open, showing two rows of uneven and stained teeth. Another slap on Javert’s back and the older guard was gone, pursued by Javert’s frown.

Almost immediately afterwards the whistles had sounded for the convicts to make their way to _la Salle_ for lunch. As he passed Javert, Valjean managed to loiter behind the group by crouching down and pretending to adjust his _patarasse_.

He inhaled a deep breath for courage then reached inside his smock for the walnut he carved several weeks prior, and tossed it gently towards Javert so that it rolled to a stop against the guard’s boot.  If the shell already weakened by his heavy-handed carving could survive intact, he hoped it would be just enough to serve as a reminder to the young man that the moment they shared in the _cachot_ was real.  Solitaire had thought Javert to be his lover which he knew was not the case, at least not yet.  So in return for this modest gift he would have been happy with just a simple glance of acknowledgment, but Javert had not given him even that.  Javert had given him nothing.

It had been weeks since and the soreness in his ribs had been replaced by a painful burn in the middle of his chest. The relative calm that he had known for a few days was gone.

 ---

 

 "... but everyone calls me Lardon, guess it must be my age ..." the boy was telling him when he focused back onto the impersonal cold glint of metal piled against the walls in the blacksmith’s workshop.  The clangs had stopped and other newly minted garlands had already begun trudging down the corridor to the dock. Valjean cringed as he followed, anticipating the bite of the frigid and humid winter winds which pierced through the worn fabric of his smock as if it were non-existent.

 "... and he was a good knight, really.  He never hit me but then again I always tried to obey him..."- his new knight seemed not to need to pause for breath - "do you see? and the bastard died of dysentery ... I arrived two months ago and now ... "

Valjean stopped abruptly and did not hide his anger when he barked at his new knight: "You see that link that is in the middle of the chain?”  The boy, frightened, nodded emphatically. "You'll take it and you'll take care of it as if it were made of gold.  If I trip over it, you will regret it for a week.  Have you understood?"

He did not wait for an answer before he turned and left the boy behind, ignoring the pleas for him to slow down.

 ---

 

In a nearby building inaccessible to ordinary convicts, an unusually strained meal was shared amidst the bare stone walls and noisy chatter of the officer’s dining room.

Captain of the _Chaîne_ Thierry pulled a piece of warped paper from his pocket and pushed it across the plain white tablecloth. “This is the letter,” he told his friend Chabouillet.  "Take it as evidence.”  It seemed to have been folded hastily more than once and was pockmarked with brown spots reminiscent of dusty countryside paths and the sweat of horses.

Chabouillet skimmed through the text quickly and was struck by the degree of vulnerability nestled between the lines; Javert actually sounded more like a victim here, describing the mistreatment of convicts, than he did recounting the crime committed against his body. The _Secrétaire_ peered over the paper’s edge and studied his friend’s face.  “Thierry, my friend, have you spoken with the adjutant yet? Did he tell you anything more?”

“No.”

They had known each other a long time and Chabouillet could see right through the unflappable exterior. ”It pains me to have to inform you…” he said, giving his friend a look not of pity but sympathy, “he did not tell you everything.”

“Spare me the dawdling.”  The curt response was delivered with a pointed look.

“He was the victim of a sexual assault. The internal investigation is still in progress, but all the facts are beyond doubt at this point.”  

Thierry swirled the _Bandol_ in his glass with a practiced roll of his wrist, but the surface of the deep red liquid broke into tremulous ripples: his hand was shaking.  He took a sip and, as if decided that the wine was not sufficiently aerated, swirled it again before he set the glass back down on the tablecloth. Chabouillet watched with great concern.  He had only seen his friend this angry once, after events better left forgotten.

“Too bad they will be tried and sentenced here in the _Bagne_ ,” Thierry said after a long while, before he picked up the glass again for another sip. “It would have been my pleasure to take them across the gates myself.”

“You should go talk to him, it would make him happy,” Chabouillet said.  He did not think his friend needed to be told this, and indeed a telltale flex of muscles on Thierry’s jaw and downcast eyes meant the point was agreed.  Chabouillet did not press further.  “I am truly sorry and embarrassed that this happened.  In fact the amount of ineptitude and corruption on display made me consider requesting a transfer to the police.  If they allow me my preference of Paris...” he paused and tried to give his friend a smile which did not look too forced, “I can treat you at the _La Petite Chaise_ next time.”  

“If you go, take him with you. If you feel he can do well.”

Chabouillet furrowed his brows in surprise. “If I feel…?” he asked, his voice trailing off.  Surely his friend was not doubting his ability to judge character?  “In only two years, and at just seventeen, he had established a reputation as the guard who could not be bribed to miscount the lashes during _bastonade_.  Some of the guards under investigation made money off of him -- by demanding bribes to assign a different, bribable, guard.”  He noticed the look of pleasant surprise on Thierry’s face and felt warmed by the fact that all the corruption was still not enough to drown out the innocence.  It had been clear that Javert had not a clue how much money had been illegally exchanged in his name. Perhaps it was best to keep it that way. “Javert is a man I want to see in the police, he just doesn’t know enough yet even to be a clerk at the office,” he continued; in his estimation the young man will simply need to spend time with more refined friends and colleagues. “I will contact some friends and find him a desk position in a prison, so he can learn more skills while earning another good recommendation. In a few years he should be ready; I will monitor his progress and help him make the transfer. Do not worry.”

Thierry nodded and gave him a look of gratitude. “He had always been a proper boy,” he said softly.

Chabouillet silently refilled his friend’s half empty glass and as an _eprouvé_ approached the table with a tray full of precariously balanced dishes, he thought it wise to change the topic. “How is your shoulder?” he asked; the question he always asked the captain who once took a bullet for him.

“The same: it aches when it rains,” Thierry said as he worked on his plate, much more relaxed now. “I need to find another boy to carry my water for me.”

The _Secrétaire_ naturally thought back to the letter he just read.  “There are many gamins on the streets of Toulon,” he mentioned.  Any of them would be lucky to have this opportunity, but perhaps most of them would be disappointing after Javert.

Thierry, as happened often, was able to read his thoughts. “Yes,” he agreed, “but not many of them are happy to carry water for an old man.”  With a nostalgic, almost wistful smile, he continued speaking: “Do you remember…”

  
\---

 

Valjean’s days slipped by slowly through interminable weeks, and in this way the months passed.The fire and chronic sharp pain in his chest spread to his throat.  Searching for Javert, Valjean suffocated.  All sorts of atrocities were concocted by his imagination; more violence, even lethal assaults perpetrated against Javert by the hands of the many corrupt guards in the _Bagne_ , or perhaps the mighty spirit which he yearned to protect was simply crushed by pain and loneliness, too broken to be found again.  Defenseless against these haunting images, he toiled himself to exhaustion.  When night fell and sleep refused to come, he remembered the sensation of gloved fingers pressing into his flesh, tendons and pulse; a return for his embrace which was offered only under guidance, yet was the only caress he had received since he became a man.  Knowing that he will also be deprived of this comfort, Valjean felt his strength abandon him.  

It was a day on the frozen docks in January when he heard Dijon shout across the yard: "The gypsy is in Marseille, scratching his ass behind a desk in the _Maison de Force_ *, surrounded by whores."  The knowing looks and the laughter which followed meant rumors of what happened in the cachot had spread among the guards.  Poches, Francois and others had all gone, leaving behind only the one with a mouth so loud that he was only good for gossip.  Valjean closed his eyes briefly and was beaten for his inattention:it did not hurt more than knowing that Javert had left without saying goodbye.

From that day, Toulon became gradually darker and the world smaller.  As he slowly became aware that not only his past and his present but also the future that he had wished for were being stolen from him, every blow became a personal affront, every effort asked of him became an insult.  Before long, indignation replaced hope and a beast replaced the man.

He felt the strong hand which the more fortunate called society was not only unforgiving, but also cheating and defrauding him of the fruits of his labor.  During these years how many times over had he repaid the value of the stolen bread, broken window, startled baker?  Too many.

Sometimes, there was still a gleam in his soul of generosity, a pure piece which was left of the man he once was; during those moments he was glad to know that Javert was away, starting a new life out of this hell, with Toulon and himself left behind, forgotten. Then another man can enter into his life, or maybe a woman; maybe this was the best. But those moments did not last and bitterness grew; he began to think that the care Javert had lavished upon him and the way Javert had defended him were all only the result of professional zeal, or worse, nothing more than a need for those two hundred _francs_. It was a princely sum and the only thing he could fault Javert for was the way he put his life at risk for it.  In the end the affection he thought he saw from the young man had been yet another product of his overactive imagination.  He cursed himself for his stupidity and undertook the enormous task of purging Javert from his mind.  At times, he succeeded.

Still the memory of Javert haunted his nights, adding fuel to a longing which needed none to continue burning.  Sometimes he woke from his dreams drenched in sweat and horrified at the discovery of the demands of his own flesh; in those days Jean Le Cric feared of losing his sanity.  His knight soon noticed his discomfort, obvious in the constrained proximity on the _tôlard_ , and duly offered his body night after night.  The first time, Le Cric turned away with an annoyed slap.  The second time he closed his eyes and imagined toned muscles on Lardon’s bony back, the scent of coarse soap and the slight itch of long hair against his skin.  He explored by touch the body known to him as only what could be seen through a wet linen shirt, and, driven by curiosity, reached around to find the part of the anatomy which the guard thought to be quite lengthy.  

But when Lardon gasped, under shallow breaths so the guards would not hear, Le Cric not only lost all interest he felt sick. He knew Javert would never want this, not after having been in that _cachot_ tied down and crying, trying to avoid contact.   Javert would never again allow a convict to touch him in that way, perhaps not even any man, and yet he, Jean Le Cric, 24601, would never want to do these things to any other man.  His most basic pleasure had been stolen from him, just like everything else.  He had been castrated.  He pushed Lardon away and tried to sleep, finding comfort in the moment he was rescued from the _cachot_ , staring through the open door, waiting for Javert to enter.

When Lardon offered his body the third time, Le Cric gave him a punch in the kidneys. He wanted no more.

With no clear memory of the world beyond the _Bagne_ , a day came when Le Cric looked up to heaven and renounced the God who allowed such suffering.  A new abyss opened at his feet.  He sought and found fight.  He received _bastonades_ and returned to the _cachots_ ; he was indifferent.  There, during a dark, silent eternity, Jean Le Cric hated and his hatred was visceral, unmitigated.  While it was fair that he should be punished as the thief he was, the laws and its corrupt servants were cruel and blind, as were the men who tacitly supported the laws to the point oftaking from him all the joys of life with impunity.

When fall came again, the fourth of his sentence, the _Chaîne_ arrived with another load of men to feed the _Bagne_.  Jean Le Cric learned from one of them that his sister now lived in Paris, with her youngest son, a life full of misery and suffering.  No one knew anything of the remaining children.  He lowered his head and reflected on his faults all that day, but soon it left his mind as he allowed the _bagne_ ’s routine to deaden his soul.

Meanwhile, Lardon adapted quickly and proved to be quite a favorite amongst the veterans of the _Bagne_. A child from the streets of Lyon, he was witty, sociable, and above all, he knew how to engineer the most valued commodity in the _Bagne_ : opportunities to escape.  

 -----

 

Paris had changed little.   Javert spotted some new brick towers rising above the horizon, spewing thick black smoke, but his boots still left prints on the Seine mud which found its way through the cobblestone streets. The sound of flowing water remained the background between the clicks and neighs brought by the passage of two carriages; the sky was still leaden at this time of year and the cold reawakened a familiar urge to huddle next to a stove.  This was his city and he had not forgotten.

He entered through the glass door of the _Commissariat_ and was immediately allowed through to the offices in the back by the officer at the front desk: they recognized him from his regular visits. The stucco walls around him were not as imposing or stately as those of the prison, and not half as clean; his gaze wandered from uniform to uniform watching the never ending activity.  In a corner an officer leaned across his desk to yell at an individual with questionable appearance; next to him another officer took notes at the counter while a woman in tears explained a bizarre story about a basket of onions. This was how the law functioned outside the prisons, and this never ceased to amaze Javert.

“Guard Javert, I summoned you outside of our regular schedule because I believe we have the address you were looking for,” the _Commissaire_ Chabouillet said without preamble when he entered.  The office of the _Commissaire_ was not very different from the rest of the facility: murky and full of dark spots caused by stale smoke from oil lamps. Nonetheless, for Javert the flawless order and the very presence of the man conferred dignity to the room.  “It was difficult with just a name and a town.  She is not even in the same province anymore, you are very lucky…”

Javert bowed his head respectfully and accepted the cleanly folded piece of paper held out to him.  “Merci, Monsieur,” he said as he unfolded it.

 

Jeanne De Val, _nom de jeune fille_ *, Valjean.

13, rue du Geindre

 

“... she came here, to Paris. The convict 24601 had been told.”

 ----

 

When Lardon sawed open the chain which bound them, Le Cric ran. The boy was unable to scale the walls and got caught while Le Cric was fleeing like a wounded animal, without ever looking back.

Hiding and constantly on the move, without food or sleep, he felt nothing but anger and fear.  If at any time he thought of an elusive and vulnerable guard in his arms, the primitive part of his brain which guided him made him understand that he would never get to see Javert, not while he was on the run.  If he ever thought of returning to a home which no longer existed, to a family that he had destroyed, his mind made him understand that his presence would be dangerous and unwanted.  Jean Le Cric ran from the _Bagne_ and the barking dogs and the citizens turned bounty hunters, for two days and two nights.  When the torches circled and closed around him, he realized that he never had any hope of escape; all he had managed was to put the things he could not stand to lose even further out of his reach.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maison de Force: Maison de force is the ancient name of prisons. In them, the prisoners were sentenced to "iron", ie forced labor. In these prisons there were men and women. If bagnes were the maximum security prisons, these were the “normal security” kind.
> 
> * Nom de jeune fille: maiden name 
> 
> * Rue du Geindre. Volume I, Fantine; Book Two: The Fall. Chapter 6: Jean Valjean.


	32. A Big Scary Man

“Maman! Maman! A big scary man chased me to the door and won’t leave!”

The woman seated at the small table reached for her frightened son as she glanced in the direction of her door. In this decrepit building sound traveled through the walls, but not a word was spoken by this person before he had begun this incessant knocking. She rubbed her son’s too bony back, “hush, child,” she whispered, “remember that your tears will not make the problem go away.” The boy clung to her leg as she took the few steps to the door.

She opened the door a fraction and at first only saw a solid charcoal gray, almost as if a wall had been constructed outside her door since she last looked. But then the block of gray moved and she raised her head to see a quite tall, and young, dark-skinned man looking down at her. She did not know this man.

“Madame,” the man’s voice was deep and naturally powerful, and he lowered his gaze to her son with a disapproving frown. “I am searching for one Jeanne De Val, she resides in this building.

“I am Jeanne De Val,” she responded solemnly. Only two days ago she had told the rent-collector she won’t get paid at work until the end of the week; if this was another one… this attic was already the cheapest room she could find which allowed her small child. “...Monsieur?”

The man examined her appearance with a directness which was rude and inappropriate to a mother, and muttered to himself something about beards. “Your name was Valjean?” he asked; she sensed a hint of youthful exuberance which reminded her of her sorely missed eldest son Marcel, and this was perhaps the only reason why she had not slammed the door. “Your brother is two-four- ... a convict?” he asked.

 

How could this man know her family name? If he came from Faverolles, why the insult? “My brother is Jean Valjean, and he is a good man,” she said, offended. “Even if his circumstances are now difficult.” In desperation he made a mistake, one which cost him dearly; in the _bagne_ he was a convict but out here, she will not tolerate him being called this. She put a fist on her hip and gave the man, who did not seem to harbor ill-will, an opportunity to apologize, but he only nodded as if he found her outburst satisfactory. He dipped his surprisingly large hand into a visibly weighed-down coat pocket and withdrew from it a small pouch, which he held out to her.

“Jean Valjean wanted you to have his money, Madame, have a good day,” the young man said calmly as he almost shoved the pouch into that fist on her hip. Then he simply turned to leave.

Suddenly she felt like the rude one, hiding behind a half-closed door and never inviting the man inside. She reached and held him back by the arm. His coat was wet against her hand. "What happened to Jean?” she asked, the question a shock to her because it came out of her mouth before she really thought about it. “Jean cannot have died…” The man flinched at the suggestion, and as if a facade had fallen away she was allowed a glimpse of the emotions boiling under the surface.

“No, no Madame, not as of… I saw him months ago.” The man paused, clearly unsatisfied with his own answer, and amended: “He was told of your address only days ago, but not by me.” He had an expressive face, and for a moment she wondered whether the ease with which she could read it was just like how customers could read the books she bound together at work. Perhaps this man was a friend Jean sent to bring back his money? She opened the door with a welcoming smile in an unmistakable gesture for her guest to enter. “Then tell me your name and do not stand at the door. Let me lay out your coat to dry.”

“It is Javert. Coats are made to be worn, not laid out to dry, Madame.” the man said. Then he tried to leave again.

 

It was only after she repeatedly dropped the pouch of coins back into his coat pocket that he finally agreed to enter; apparently he could not leave with those - by his claim - one hundred ninety-nine _francs_ because he had not earned them. The boy to lead him to the only chair in their room but he chose to stand next to the stove instead, hunched over due to the low ceiling. At least he wasn’t trying to leave anymore for the moment. Jeanne De Val silently raised her head in prayer while she stepped around her guest to set some water to boil on the stove. As recently as a year ago, maybe months ago, she would not have the strength to hand back a bag of money offered to her this way. Memories of Julie and Anne would have incapacitated her hand.

“Pierre, move the chair to the stove for Monsieur Javert,” she ordered, and watched as her son struggled a bit to lift the three-legged stool before Javert took it out of his hands and set it next to the stove, only to stand next to it as if the stool was in his way. The boy, pouting and tremendously confused, kept his head tilted back to an angle so awkward as to induce pain in the observer as he tried to look up at Javert’s face. “Pierre, do not be afraid of the guest,” she said, and, meant for Javert, “he is small for his age...bigger kids often take advantage of this.”

Javert studied the tiny boy next to him with mild curiosity. “How old are you, boy?” he asked.

“Seven…” The boy’s response sounded like a squeak.

Javert shrugged. “When I was your age I was smaller than you, and I did not get to go to school,” he declared; the raw power in his voice made the boy jump, but the message itself won him admiring, almost worshipping looks.   

 

Jeanne served verveine for three and took the seat; this somehow made Javert feel free to nestle even closer to the stove than before, almost hugging it. He was an odd man and she feared that should she look away for too long, she would turn back to find her guest on fire. Now that his top hat was off she saw that he was clean-shaven and had long hair neatly tied back; he looked like a military man and certainly a man not particularly inclined to speak, just like her brother.

It took her awhile but eventually she understood while talking over the hot drinks that the money came from gambling, not stealing. Though gambling was not a pastime she had respect for, there probably weren’t many other legal ways to earn money in the _bagne_ . She was grateful to Javert and she was glad that he at least appreciated her stove, because otherwise he would be sitting at the her table on uneven legs, and she would have been a horrible host to her brother’s friend. “Is Jean doing well?” she asked, turning to Javert and noticing that his cup was still half full. “He should leave the _bagne_ soon… I could not afford to go to his trial but I heard from a neighbor that he was sentenced to five years. It was when Pierre here turned three, only one more year.”

From Javert’s surprised expression she could tell he had not known when Jean was due back. “Last I saw him, he was recovering from the fight and was in good health,” Javert spoke at the cup in his hand as he gave the casual question some serious thought. “He was no longer favoring his right side,” he said softly, nodding to himself.

Now that all her fears had been allayed, she was at a loss for what to say. “Did Jean ask you to bring anything else, perhaps a message?”

Javert reached into his pocket, a different one from where the coins were, and pulled out a nut. “The only thing he gave me was this, but I don’t know what it is for.” He watched her reaction intently as he placed it on her palm, as if he expected some show of understanding or recognition.

She turned the walnut between her fingers, watching the almost childlike engraving; with a smile she handed it back. “You should keep it. I have never seen him do this kind of work, he must have tried his best.” Without making a fuss Javert simply accepted it and returned it immediately back to his pocket. Certainly he was far happier with the prospect of leaving with this carved walnut than a bag of _francs_ , but what value could a carved walnut hold? Only sentimental value. She sensed, perhaps by a kind of maternal instinct since she had raised Jean from a very young age, that she had inadvertently discovered an affection between the two men, and that perhaps this was a piece of information they did not wish her to know. When Jean was arrested he was twenty-six, an age at which many men were already married, yet she had never seen him with a “ _bonne amie_ ”. This Javert seemed a difficult but honest man, one who was willing to wait for her brother to return. She knew this kind of affection between men was bestial and sinful, and that it would have been better if Jean found a woman, as God intended, but if his heart was inclined towards this man, like her heart settled on her husband despite his lack of wealth, that was something she could understand. Jean stole to feed her children. At least to her, he had earned the right to be happy.

 

Studying Javert more closely, she saw that his stance was perfectly square, and that despite being forced to bend at his waist he still kept his back perfectly straight; both these details were consistent with the clean appearance she already noticed to suggest a man of military bearing. Even that large coat could have been a military overcoat. Maybe he served a short sentence in Toulon for some youthful mistake made while in the military? She was curious to know but she did not wish to embarrass him. "You're in the Navy? They say Toulon is a naval base, but I didn’t knew that sailors and prisoners could interact…”

“ _Non_ , Madame, I am a guard in the jail in Nanterre.”

“Nanterre?”  That was a town just outside of Paris, only hours away by coach, but that was still travel. “Did you come all this way just to deliver the money?”

“ _Non_ .” At her exasperated expression he volunteered a more detailed response: “The _Commissaire_ of police, Chabouillet summons me sometimes so I can do small errands at his office for a few days.” She didn’t really understand what this meant aside from that Javert worked with the police.

She chuckled a little at how she seemed to have been wrong with every guess. “I have been asking all these questions…” she said, a bit flustered, “is there anything I could tell you about Jean?”

This got him to look over at her in somewhat endearing, wide-eyed surprise. However, the question he asked immediately was not at all so: “Who taught him to steal? Was it you?” Jeanne rose from her seat abruptly and emptied her lukewarm cup of verveine on his chest as she demanded, "What are you implying, Monsieur?” This shocking lack of manners did not reflect well on this young man’s mother at all, but if this was the man chosen by Jean she will teach it to him herself.

Javert stared at her in stunned silence while he held the back of his head, which he had bumped quite hard against the ceiling. Then he scraped the excess liquid off of his coat with his shovel-like large hands and responded in dismay, “So you don’t know who did it. I was hoping to go lecture this person about the law.” She had not expected this answer and got the distinct impression that though Javert obviously knew Jean in completely different contexts than she did, he missed her brother the same way.  Jean had won the affection of this guard, and Jeanne De Val knew she must not stand between her brother and the man he had found.  

She had turned to retrieve a dish towel to hand to Javert and was trying to think of an apology when she heard the man speak up again, a bit more timid this time. “May I ask another question?” She smiled to him encouragingly.

“Will Va-- will he just give you his money and leave immediately?” Javert asked, searching gaze aimed straight into her eyes. She understood this was not a man afraid to be attacked with something worse than lukewarm verveine, but a man fearing he would be answered with a lie, or a half-truth.  

“No,” she said, keeping the eye contact. “No. Jean is -- was a pruner, just like our father. There is obviously no work for a pruner here in Paris but Jean is hard-working. He had done almost every job which did not require qualification.” She smiled as the young man’s gaze softened, and as she offered him the towel. “Jean will learn and will adapt to Paris, maybe his experience driving oxen could help him work with horses…”

“Yes, he will have his yellow ticket...” Javert said, looking away, his face almost relaxing into a smile. “Every police station has horses, and the _Poste_ … he will find something. I am sure of it.”

 

He turned his attention to the holes at the bottom of the opposite wall, beneath the few clothes drying off a rope stretched across the room. That was the closet. Jeanne assumed she did not need to explain it was a mouse hole because everyone knew the smell of mouse urine. She explained apologetically, “This is all I could afford to rent on my book-binder’s salary.”

Javert nodded and looked around the tiny room; every hole, every crack was in plain view. “That door is not functional, it needs to be fixed,” he said, but in truth there were many other things equally appalling. The young man had chosen his priorities wisely. In the evenings Jeanne would get startled by the slightest noise, and often she had the impression that small Pierre lived in a perpetual state of fear. Maybe she was unintentionally transmitting her fear onto him, or perhaps the child was already old enough to understand on his own that they were not safe. Either way it would be a tremendous improvement to their daily lives if she could leave their room to go to work without fear of break-ins, and for both of them to be able to sleep feeling safe. This thought made Jeanne bold.

“Do you know to read, Monsieur?” she asked. When Javert nodded in response, she continued, “I was not able to pay to fix the door and even now, I would like to save the money you delivered. Would you accept a book as payment -- I can bring you one rejected by the customer for mistake in binding?” to which Javert responded eagerly, “Yes, the police don’t do much work in the nights and they don’t want me to stay past dinner.”

 

Like any wife of a poor peasant Jeanne knew to use her hands, and she had repaired the door twice already, nailing wood planks over the holes. It was in vain. She had not expected Javert to do anything different, perhaps a bit more securely, but instead, the guard had managed to bring a set of tools and some metal plates which he shaped and fitted to the doorposts. These will undoubtedly hold against any robber’s metal tools. He worked quickly, with absolute concentration. When he finished installing two new locks and turned to Jeanne, Javert did not seem particularly proud of his work. For a brief moment Jeanne thought she read in his face a spark of vulnerability, and she began to understand what her brother saw in the young guard. She thanked him and handed him the thick book with beautiful leather binding.

Javert read the cover and was ecstatic. He now owned a copy of _The Sewers of Paris Through History: An Illustrated Guide._

 


	33. Choice of one

"This is Javert. Did he…?"

Jeanne shook her head with a tired smile, then simply stepped back from the door to allow her guest inside with a hurried familiarity. "Thank you for coming, Monsieur Javert," she said while she served him a steaming beverage on the wobbly table, "it is only chicory, but it will do you good." She did not stop to wait for any expression of gratitude, instead turned her back to pull on her worn shawl.

The boy Pierre was asleep, curled up on the mattress now insulated from the frozen ground by a wooden pallet. Fully dressed and certainly breakfasted, the child was ready to go to school and indeed would have already left with his mother if Javert was not here. But this particular morning Pierre could stay in bed instead of being dropped off at his school an hour early, to wait outside the door in the February frost.

Jeanne glanced over her shoulder to her small boy one last time, perhaps to comfort herself. "If you are ever free in the morning again, let me know?" she asked. Javert nodded solemnly, and she disappeared out the door.

Javert shrugged off his coat and went to the stove, cup in hand. He felt his muscles relax as the heat warmed his body; this was a simple comfort yet at the same time one of the most pleasurable experiences he had known in his life.

Over the past year the _Commissaire_ Chabouillet gradually summoned him to Paris more often, and trusted him to help with increasingly complex tasks. Though his schedule tended to be quite irregular and unpredictable, he stopped by to watch Pierre whenever he could. This was essentially a guard and escort duty which he knew, and for which he earned books to sharpen his reading skills. She always apologized that the books were rejects with bad bindings, but every single one had held up to repeated reading perfectly well. He had found that, for a woman who recognized few words, Jeanne had an uncanny ability to pick out very practical or thought-provoking books. Today she had left a small one for him on the table.

After he felt himself thoroughly toasted he picked it up and examined it with eagerness. Perhaps this _Romeo and Juliet, French Translation_ was a crime novel just like the last one?  A glance at the watch told him he only had a quarter hour - not enough time to read in earnest - so he opened it up to a random page and searched for key words. “O true apothecary, thy drugs are quick...?” he read. He scratched his growing, and therefore slightly itchy, beard as he considered this, “that is homicide by illegal drugs and years in the _bagne_ …” his interest piqued, he worked through random pages with increased fervor as he muttered under his breath, “faked death to avoid wedding... liquor to put someone in a coma… Romeo, homicide... Juliet , suicide… Romeo, suicide…” he rolled his eyes. Another perfectly good crime novel ruined by the lack of arrests. This must be fixed. He flipped back to the beginning of the final act and made the necessary correction with a stick of lead. Now the opening line read: “ ACT V SCENE I. Mantua. ~~_A street._ ~~ _Jail. Awaiting trial ._ ”  Pleased, he closed the book in his lap and gave it a few pats. Then he sipped the rest of his drink.

A few minutes later he woke the boy and walked him to school.

The small boy stayed beside him, with the key to return home hanging around his neck and sleep hanging on his eyelashes. The extra hour had not lessened the bite of the wintry air; within a few steps Pierre huddled against Javert’s coat and reached up to grab his gloved hand without thought, as if by habit.  Javert marveled at the idea that a different human being could willingly follow him, not because he held their chains in his hand and not because he had an arrest warrant like the policemen he watched.Perhaps this boy did so only begrudgingly, because this was undoubtedly the preferable option compared to walking there alone.

He still could remember when he once ran down these same streets with his mother, fleeing from the police he now aspired to become, but he never held his mother’s hand. It was always her who grabbed his arm painfully, leaving marks on his skin. The thoughts of this small boy trudging along trying to keep up, fingers closed around his pinkie -- he could not understand it.  And so as he walked, he dreamed; he pondered whether the convict he did not understand would one day willingly walk beside him and care for him.  This was a difficult question to get answered but he had found a way.  Soon the day will come when that question he asked always before he entered will be responded with: “Yes, Jean came back.” Perhaps Jeanne’s next sentences would even be, “He is inside.  He remembers you.”

\----

 

Time passed. The snow thawed and weed grew from the muddy cracks between the cobblestones.

Javert lifted the heavy pallet from the bottom while Marcel, Jeanne’s eldest son, supported the top, and together they climbed the stairs to the third-floor. They manipulated it through the door and into their humble new home with freshly shined floors, large enough to comfortably accommodate three beds without difficulty.  It seemed that Jeanne’s hands never tired of touching the faces and hair of her two eldest children, both recently returned. Marcel had finished his apprenticeship as a cooper and now earned a steady wage performing maintenance work; Marie-Jeanne, however, continued to serve as domestic servant in the home of a widow which kept her away except for two Sundays each month.

Javert accepted the glass of water Pierre held out to him with a frown and received a frown in return. From her family’s new stove Jeanne turned to them, studied the image of her youngest son reaching for the glass in the young man’s hand, this young man who had been more than a guest for a while now.

"Monsieur Javert, come sit a moment," she said pointing to one of the chairs Marcel just set down next to the table. Not knowing where to start with the biggest of favors which she was about to ask, she took a deep breath and laid a slightly trembling hand on Javert’s forearm, however this gesture seemed only to confuse the young man. "I buried a daughter in Étavigny, my poor little Anne was too weak ... I carried her on my back, like Pierre, but that was not enough. Soon after, Julie became ill; we had to return to town to leave her there, with her sister."  Jeanne swallowed thickly and had to stop and look up at the ceiling for a moment. "We arrived to Paris begging the entire way…” the lump in her throat was too tight, but she could not afford to show weakness to her children nor to Javert. “Life is difficult here, but still better than it was in Faverolles.”

Javert, who was listening to her intently, nodded in agreement. “Paris is the greatest city.  If you work hard you can have a decent life,” he replied with absolute conviction. His youthful idealism made her smile.

“I had to abandon my other two children in Acy-en-Multien, in the old _Hôtel Dieu_ , with the promise to come back for them when I had work," she continued, patting his forearm while pretending her usual certainty. "The time has come, Monsieur.  I would like them back with me."

"Two more children are a burden," replied the young man without hesitation.

Jeanne smiled patiently at what she had learned to recognize as cold logic rather than malice. "Dominic is now old enough to work as an apprentice,” she said, explaining away Javert’s concern. “Together, we can take care of the little ones Louis and Pierre. Can you help me fill out the paperwork? I can only pay in discarded books."

Javert rubbed his chin for a moment. "Yes, soon two... Valjean will bring you his earnings..."  Resolving the issue would be as easy as writing a couple of letters, which he could do very well. "Yes, I will see to it this week," he said with his usual confidence.

Jeanne stood up slowly, her eyes away from the young man whom she had come to appreciate despite his eccentricities. "My family will be eternally grateful," she said giving him a couple of slaps on his arm. "And now, it would be wise for you boys to get away from here; Marie-Jeanne and I have many things to fix before preparing dinner."

And so Javert walked out onto the streets with little Pierre attached to one of his fingers and a thin, clumsy boy - not really resembling 24601 - on his other side.  Jeanne had made clear that a tour of the sewers was NOT an acceptable use of their time outside, even though there were many locations he read about in the book which he wished to see in person.  Fortunately there was something else he missed in this city, and which he could show to the boys every opportunity he had without tiring.  “We will go to the _Palais de Justice_ ,” he said.  It was not a suggestion but an order, even though he wasn’t enough older than Marcel - only six years - to naturally assume the role of guardian. Marcel nodded pensively.

“We will visit the lion? Meow?” Pierre asked, his eyes alight with joy.

“Yes,” Javert said. He did not know what on earth made the boy think the lion sounded like the cats on the street, but since it was obviously mute there was no point for debate.  “Do you remember what I told you about what happens to people who break the law?”

“Yes! I do…” Pierre responded proudly. He was now just at the age where he loved to show off everything he knew; Marcel, the opposite.  However, on this topic Marcel broke his gloomy silence.

“I know uncle Jean was sent to the _Bagne_ for stealing.  It is something I will never forget,” the older boy said. Javert never understood children even when he was one himself, but in Marcel he recognized the trace of animosity and bitterness he felt towards his convict parents. He simply nodded to acknowledge that fact, then both of them listened as Pierre’s voice chased away the silence.

\----------

 

Soon the days began to grow cold and another winter beckoned, but Jeanne had received no sign of Valjean.  Certainly the man never knocked on the door, and there was no letter, no spoken message relayed by gamins either.

Javert had explained more than once that Valjean would need some time to find his own way to Paris, but also that this trip would be identical to the one which the _Chaîne_ \- a ragtag group of prisoners made to travel against their will - always completed in under one month. Why would a healthy man with sufficient money for food and unencumbered by chains take a year? Often she caught herself looking over at Javert and wondered whether, beneath the appearance of being perfectly content to ask the same question and receive the same negative answer, this young man also worried that Jean had fallen ill or had been robbed while on the way.  She tried not to burden the others with her thoughts but when that became impossible, she approached Javert with the candor she knew he appreciated.  

“Can you ask the _Commissaire_ Chabouillet to find out when Jean left Toulon?” she asked, watching Javert’s face. If this _Commissaire_ had the ability to not only find her in Paris but also notify Jean of her address, it should be possible for him to simply look at the paperwork.  

Javert’s gaze turned foggy and distant. “Do you know what a _cachot_ is?” he asked after a strained silence. When she shook her head, he told himself that there was no need to describe to her the cachot he once entered, the floor and walls of which were completely covered in blood. The convict had tried to slit his own wrists in the dark, and it seemed that the first few times, he missed.

“I will ask tomorrow,” he said to Jeanne.

\----

 

It was in the middle of transcribing a testimony that Javert was summoned in to the _Commissaire_ ’s office.

“I have the information on 24601.” Chabouillet, busy behind the desk, spoke with the carefully unfeeling tone he had adopted since leaving the _bagne_ _,_ one which calmed the emotionally distraught citizens who often entered through his door.  “He received a three year extension to his sentence for an escape attempt made two years ago, and an additional five years for a second escape attempt in which he resisted arrest only weeks ago.”  Only after an unexpected silence echoed his words did he look up from his papers to find the young man bowed and trembling.  “Javert?” he asked, surprised but quickly realizing that perhaps he should not have been. Out of guilt for having transferred this young man out of Toulon without much notice, he had offered to help contact any friends he had left behind. This young man had no one. He only asked about this convict.

“It is common, Javert, to feel responsible over someone whose life you had saved.  It happens often with the police, but in this case it is obvious that 24601 is not interested in repaying society for his crimes. This level of recidivism leaves no room for doubt.” Chabouillet clasped his hands and leaned forward on his desk, shedding his professional demeanor for a moment so he could play the role of mentor.     

Javert balled his large hands into fists, both shaking as if set on a hair-trigger. This lasted over a minute and even then, all he managed was a clumsy gesture which, fortunately, Chabouillet was able to understand as an apology, a request for a moment. Chabouillet leaned back into his chair and observed without comment until, after an alarmingly long time, he heard the young man whisper weakly, “What should I do now?”

This question would be obviously a rhetorical one if asked by any other man, but from Javert this was simply unthinkable. Chabouillet placed his pen on the desk and carefully studied the man he thought he knew well. “Yes, there actually is something you could take the afternoon off to do to get your mind off of this.  I inquired for openings in the police suitable for your skills and realized that you are not in the civil registry. I assume it is because you were born before non-Catholics were allowed to become citizens. Take this letter, which explains the circumstances of your birth and has my seal, to get yourself registered. You should have no problems.” Javert accepted the paper and nodded, his face oddly flushed.

Still, the eyes which looked back at Chabouillet showed more bewilderment than understanding, and the _Commissaire_ felt obligated to make himself more clear.  “In the police you will serve with colleagues, interact with superiors and soon inferiors. Most of them will not be like Thierry, and they will not be like those vile prejudiced guards in Toulon; they will be suspicious of you, they will hold you to higher standards, they will latch onto anything to justify their suspicions, but it is still possible to earn their respect.  It is a hard life but I know this is not news to you.” Chabouillet massaged his temple with two fingers: he never felt comfortable talking this way, especially not to someone who was clearly in at war with himself, trying to keep reactions off his face. “There is hope that things will get better, because the First Consul Napoleon is widely known to promote by merit in his army… perhaps this type of promotion will soon spread to the police. There were butchers promoted to lieutenants and construction workers to sergeants and even men like you, Javert, Roma men promoted ahead of Frenchmen.”  Unable to tell from the face in front of him whether his words were understood, he paused for a moment to wait for a reaction.  Javert nodded.  Chabouillet knew this was probably the wrong time to have such a difficult conversation, but there was a reason he mentioned all of this and so he made his point as quickly as he knew how: “Javert, sentimentality to a brute is exactly one of those things which, in the eyes of those sniffing around for reasons to justify their prejudice, makes you appear weak. Remember the good work you did to help a convict in need, but forget about 24601.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Javert said, the tremor which left his body now settled in his voice. “Yes I will do it.”

\------

 

Javert walked to the _Commissariat_ ’s attached living quarters, to the guest room where he slept every time he visited. The place was thankfully barren in the middle of the work day but Javert still did not feel comfortable letting out his emotions; instead he unpacked his luggage and laid out all his possessions across the floor.  Aside from what he wore he had a book, spare clothes, a carved walnut, a few coins and Chabouillet’s letter.  He was traveling, yes, but back in that squalid room he called home, he didn’t have much more.

This was all he was worth, and the better half of it came from came from a convict and this convict’s so-called sister, who, now it was clear, could easily be a wife or a mistress, since he was too blindly trusting to actually check. And this convict was a liar, an actor, able to claim that he wanted to be a man again, to wear his name again, to get his money to his sister, all while planning escape attempts. He had been tricked, like the stupid man he was, twenty-two years old and still trying to teach himself to read. How could the _Commissaire_ Chabouillet recommend someone so laughably gullible for the police?

Javert rubbed his face with his hands and paced. He felt not anger, but something far more terrible; he felt betrayed and he felt that he had been robbed of something precious, something of which he was only allowed a fleeting, tantalizing glimpse. In the _Commissaire_ ’s office he had feared that if he tried to speak he would scream; now he feared he would weep, and that would be unacceptable even with no one watching.  It was all because of this weakness, exactly what the _Commissaire_ tried to warn him against, that he had allowed the conniving convict not only to trick him into the _cachot_ but to put an arm around him, and whisper a lie right into his ear. “You are very dear to me,” the convict had said, and the most excruciating part about this was not that this was a lie -- but that this was a lie which he wished to hear again.

Javert paced for an hour, maybe two, and when he stooped to pack everything back into his bag, he had a new understanding of the world and his place in it. Trustworthy or not, Jeanne was clearly the mother of those children and she treated them as if they were special, she treated them well.  Why should he expect anyone to treat him better than his own mother did?  Just like these books, it was simply his lot in life to be unwanted for no reason; just like these books, he must strive to prove himself as perfectly serviceable against others’ judgment. Otherwise he will disappoint the only people who cared: the Captain Thierry and the _Commissaire_ Chabouillet.  And if in the end, this was all because something was wrong with him, if he needed to be fixed somehow, he could only hope that those fixes would be as simple as the ones he made for his books.

\--------

 

Jeanne walked briskly down the street with a loaf of bread cradled in one arm and a jug of milk dangling from the other, hurrying home with dinner for five at the end of a work day. As she made the final turn she saw that a tall man, impressive and unsettling, stood outside the door to her building in the bitter cold, watching and waiting. From the colossal caped charcoal grey coat and the posture, she recognized Javert.

“24601 is now due to be released in seven more years,” he announced when she neared, in a tone which was effortlessly cold and bereft of emotion. “But at his rate of two escape attempts in just two years you should stop expecting him to come back.” The man spoke without lowering his head to make eye contact with the shorter woman, instead continued to scan the street for suspicious activity.

Jeanne was too stunned and too heartbroken to do much more than hold onto the heavy jug of milk. When the man tucked his chin behind tall collars and barricaded himself from the world, she tried to invite him in for a bowl of soup.

“ _Non_ , Madame, I will not come back either,” he responded, blunt but courteous. “Being related to a convict does not mean you must follow him down a criminal path. Your children also, see to it that they are raised to be law-abiding citizens. Have a good evening.”  With that, he pulled his top hat down to his brows, and he turned. The layered shoulder capes lifted in the frosty wind, sparkling under the street lamps at the spots where condensation had frozen into ice.

In but a few short years this silhouette, this unmistakable presence, will become one which was instantly recognizable on the streets. People will whisper that this man had no heart, no understanding of human relationships, and they would be right. This man: Inspector Javert.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Jeanne’s family, information was taken from Les Miserables Volume I, Fantine; Book Two: The Fall. Chapter 6: Jean Valjean, whenever possible. Others are made up. She really is a book-binder. 
> 
> History of civil registration in France:  
> http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Histoire_de_l%27%C3%A9tat_civil_en_France
> 
> 1787: Edict of Toleration, in which the civil registration of non-Catholics is established.  
> http://huguenotsweb.free.fr/histoire/edit1787.htm
> 
> Decree of 20 September 1792 which determines how certify the civil status of citizens  
> http://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/D%C3%A9cret_du_20_septembre_1792_qui_d%C3%A9termine_le_mode_de_constater_l%E2%80%99%C3%A9tat_civil_des_citoyens
> 
> Police ranks: Commissaire was the highest police rank in each “arrondissement”, which are governing/administrative districts in big cities like Paris, or entire smaller regions like MsM.  
> Below Commissaire is one Officier de Paix in each Commissariat and many Inspecteurs, possibly also lower ranks we are not certain of at the moment.


	34. A face never to be remembered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: GRAPHIC FIRST SCENE.

**Montreuil-ser-Mer, 1819.**

 

“... captured behind warehouse six and surrendered to the guards. For attempted escape, 24601 had been sentenced to the _bastonade_ and will now receive a count of twenty lashes. One!”

 

Bare-chested, face pressed against wet wood, Jean le Cric willed his muscles to relax against the impact which coursed through his torso and slammed his ribs into the inclined plank. The tarred rope sliced through his flesh and tore his breath right out from his lungs. Metal links clanged and pinged.

 

“Two!” He did not scream, not in front of the prisoners gathered to witness the occasion. Four pairs of hands held his limbs firmly in place as the guard announced with his cracked voice, sounding extremely pleased, “Four!” He could not prevent himself from unbalancing the _eprouvé_ that held his right arm with a sudden jerk.

 

Less damage if he relaxed, but it was a losing battle.

 

“Six!” He did not fear pain, nor a return to the darkness of the _cachot_. His only regrets were his failure to climb over that cursed wall and his inability to limp to the crates to hide before the damn guard saw him. He felt his flesh flayed loose. “Seven.” He thought of the frail convict who started coughing up blood at fifty-seven, and was dragged away with blood all over his face, only to suffocate on his own lungs before they could take him through the crowd. “Ten.” He knew he would no longer be able to feel pain or anything else by twelve or thirteen, and kept his jaws locked through the bursting gushes of air through his nostrils, leaving a metallic tang on his tongue. That time could not come soon enough, when every sensation would be dulled because the feeling part of his mind would shut off to numb a body unable to tolerate any more.

 

When the world, the wood plank finally narrowed and time slowed as if his consciousness was freed from his body, his did not breathe until he felt the icy daggers of vinegar poured onto open wounds. The pain exploded as the wood rammed into his nose, back in full color; chains clattered onto the plank in a resonating thud. Then came the rush of sea water which lit the exposed and tattered nerve-endings of his back on fire. He allowed his tongue to part his clamped lips when the most violent initial spasms had eased.

 

“You should eat this,” a deep, serious voice intoned. He tasted it, the sticky, flaky, wet thing held to his lips. Salt.

 

His back muscles had been pulverized and he knew he had not the strength to lift his head from the plank, even just a little, so he could turn and see this face. He would not be able to for weeks, just as he would not be able to breathe without pain for days. The face he was not allowed to remember, featureless, only a source of sound.

 

Is this medicine? he asked. Woolen fingers felt for his pulse.

 

“No,” came the response. It was a rumbling, expansive sound, as if the sea growled a complaint against the caress of Toulon’s bleak, scathing winds. A sound so familiar, so constant in the background, it was noticeable only when it was silenced or when it spoke to him, like now. “There is no medicine to cure you of me.”

 

-

 

Père Madeleine sat up in his bed, panting, and rubbed his eyes. The nights of Montreuil, during these darkest depths of winter, were punishingly dry, frigid, and interminable. Demons of his past taunted him mercilessly with memories. He removed his sweat-soaked nightgown in the dark - his hands were shaking too much to light the lamp - and felt through the items in the drawer of his bedside table until he located the jar of ointment. With a hiss against the cold, he spread the salve over the uneven skin of his back everywhere he could reach, eager for the warming sensation it would soon provide. It was scant relief, just enough to tide him across the remaining hellish hours until sunrise and morning mass.

 

-

 

Three hours later he knelt in church, safe in the anonymity of the sparsely attended low mass, and felt on his burdened soul the gaze of God: merciful, forgiving, nonjudgmental.

 

“ _Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa_ (through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault),” he recited in a low whisper. With a loose fist he thrice struck his chest, right over his beating heart, once for each utterance of the word “fault”; word by word and gesture by gesture, Père Madeline condemned the depraved beast within him, the beast he vowed to keep under chains and hidden from all but God.   

 

“ _Quia peccavi in cogitatione, in locutione, in opere_ (that I have sinned in thought, in speech, in work)…” Surrounded by the sweet aroma of incense, Madeleine bowed his head and counted his blessings: his peaceful solitude, his existence free from temptations such as greed and selfishness.

 

“ _...In pollutione mentis et corporis_ (in the purity of mind and of the body)...” He felt humbled and blessed, because through His help he had overcome the most dangerous of passions: violence and lust. The beast was weak against them, but the beast had been silenced. “ _...precor vos orare pro me_ (I pray that you pray for me)."

 

The Cross hung on the wall not far away, almost close enough to reach. He asked for forgiveness for his greatest sin: though he was forced to pray in Toulon every Sabbath, the only mass and the only prayer he remembered was the time the object of the beast’s lust, that guard who should never be named, stood by his side.  

 

Madeleine crossed himself and stood leaning on his good leg, not the lame one. He was a good man, in the best sense of the word, but he dared not report the crimes on his name, his real name, even in the confession booth. As believers formed a row in front of the pews to receive communion - the clean slate, the spiritual rebirth granted to all who confessed their sins in full - Madeleine remained in his seat and had no difficulty identifying the strong surge of emotion in his chest as the hatred which had corroded him for many years. He took a deep breath and pressed the rosary in his pocket against his chest as he reminded himself that, no, it was not the fault of these people that he could trust no man, not even the priest.

 

He closed his stinging eyes, swollen with tears and begged for God’s help to keep the beast that stirred within him chained one more day, in the place where it belonged: the stinking bowels of the _bagne_.

 

Though he may never know again the unburdened conscience the saintly Bishop of Digne once conferred on him with his merciful forgiveness, he could still aspire to be an instrument in the hands of God, just as the Bishop was. For this he must continue the humble work he had done in his factory, and in this town.  

 

\---

 

Inspector Javert ascended the last flight of stairs to the spartan room which was his residence. His neighbors, eight of them, bickered loudly in profanity-laden language about a mess of vomit left in the common garderobe. The moment the rotting and moldy wood tile groaned under his boot, they fell silent. Some lowered their heads as if guilty, others followed with their eyes his passage through the hallway with belligerence and fear. A baby nursing from its mother's tit began to howl.

 

“Go check downstairs with the tavern owner whether the fishmonger drank there last night, like he did the four times over the past two months when he left similar messes in the garderobe.” Javert dutifully gave his input as a fellow resident, knowing it would be ignored. His neighbors always behaved as if the act of arguing was cathartic or satisfying, more so than resolving the situation as quickly as possible. He closed his door and methodically secured the row of locks, all three of them. At the third click the screaming ensued in earnest, too loud to be silenced by the door. Javert humphed in irritation. Thankfully he had already stayed his last night in this room.

 

He leaned over the warped bed on which lay two sets of saddlebags, worn but immaculately oiled and polished. One set had been fully packed and carefully inspected the night before, complete with labels hanging off the straps denoting in clear, bold letters: “CRIME NOVELS” and, on the other, "LAW AND BOOKS". This pair of saddlebags he deposited at the door before he turned his attention to the other.

 

Into the remaining space inside the bag labeled "CLOTHING" he inserted his nightgown, folded then rolled into a compact cylinder. Lastly he opened the other bag of the pair, which was labeled "TOULON", and performed a final check of the contents of the bag. A pair of shiny shoes, but too narrow to be used for a long walk and an old tea box rested there. He brushed his fingertips over the rusty metal, on which he could still read the awkward inscription: "JAVAIR" and secured the lid with a piece of string. This trip with the _Poste_ would take him across France, and he did not want his savings to be scattered inside the saddlebag.

 

With this pair of bags also at the door and ready to go, Javert took from his coat pocket the coins for the final rent payment and set it on the table. Reaching inside the other pocket, he unfolded the letter containing his orders to make sure he had memorized them correctly.

 

"... transferred to the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer effective immediately, where in the absence of a mayor you will serve as acting _Commissaire_ , with authority to execute critical mayoral functions until a permanent mayor is appointed."

 

That this order was clear did nothing to alter the fact that the situation was extraordinary; he had effectively been asked, as a lowly _Inspecteur_ , to assume the role of a _Commissaire_ in a town nominally too small to warrant one. It was an order to perform a duty better done by a man two ranks his superior, since nothing in the order mentioned a promotion. He felt humbled and privileged at the same time.

 

He returned the letter to his pocket and slung the saddlebags onto his shoulders, one on each side. The set with all the books was far heavier, unbalancing him onto his right, and he caught himself hoping that Jeanne would not send him any more books before his next transfer. On the other side of the door the argument had only gotten more heated during the past minutes. Javert closed his eyes and checked one last thing, reaching to the bottom of his filled coat pocket to confirm the presence of the rough nut with his fingers. Then, with all his belongings, he exited the room and descended the stairs in blessed silence.

 

\---

 

Montreuil-sur-Mer was truly a town, not a city; it straddled a river, the Canche, and its fortunes declined as the river slowly went dry. A former battlefront, it perched atop a shallow hill overlooking a heavily forested landscape and boasted a citadel at its highest point.

 

On its dusty dirt and pockmarked cobblestone roads boys froliced with crude toys made from carved coconut shells and pieces of string while girls dressed dolls of tied straw with clothes of husks. In the shadows of seemingly vacated buildings a few scantily-dressed women, cheeks red with powdered blush, hid from his gaze as he passed. He nodded to himself - prostitutes waiting for work - that was to be expected. In the light of day the well-dressed and more respectable members of the populace strolled and one group spoke loudly of one Mère Lambert; all of them also watched him with suspicion as he passed. He pulled his hat low across his brow; again, he nodded to himself: that was to be expected.

 

Now that he had rented a small room as close to the police station and Mairie as he could afford, he must get to work. Monsieur Chabouillet had explained in a private letter that he had personally negotiated this transfer as an opportunity for him to prove himself so he could finally earn his promotion to _Officier de Paix_. In it, he also provided valuable information on why the town not only had no mayor but also did not expect one to be appointed too soon: the King himself had appointed a successful factory owner, a Monsieur Madeleine, to the post but the appointment was declined.

 

Though this Monsieur Madeleine had only arrived in Montreuil-sur-Mer eight years ago, he had already built a free pharmacy, a school each for boys and girls, a nursing home for old workers… the list was so extensive that Chabouillet had instructed him to look up records upon his arrival should he wished for more information - which he did. All of these were on top of his factory of rosaries, which was the most profitable business in the town for the past five years. Monsieur Madeleine employed convicts, vagabonds, the sick and feeble - in short, anybody who wished to work, this much Javert was able to learn. He had found this to be almost as shocking as the concept that a good citizen of France would ever reject an appointment made by the King, though all this explained why after the rejection the King did not immediately turn to someone else. Anyone else would simply be inferior.

 

The sun was about to set and so he followed the map to this Monsieur Madeleine’s factory, to notify those convict workers of his appointment as the acting _Commissaire_. Along the way, he could see how local people amused themselves speaking blatantly of their neighbor; in Paris, the same persons would have been debating about politics.

 

What Javert observed were manifestations of a phenomenon which few understood. Prosperity had brought with it an unintended and far-reaching consequence: gossip had become the preferred recreational activity for the good people of Montreuil-sur-Mer. Many participants were guided by good intentions but their stories were never as exciting as tales of infidelity, jealousy or corruption which captured the public's collective imagination and elicited in them the fervor and following usually reserved for horse racing. Every living, breathing being was a potential target - neighbors, husbands, wives, mistresses, this factory owner, and of course this suspicious new inspector in town.  

 

But, at the moment, Javert did not think much of the gossip. His concern was that it was the mayor’s duty to regularly check paroled convicts for their yellow-tickets of leave, and that such checks had certainly been neglected in the absence of a mayor.

 

He would do this now, an unofficial sweep, to identify those who failed to produce the document which they were supposed to carry at all times even though he lacked the authority to arrest them right there. The word of law was never to be questioned, though in this case it certainly complicated things. To those people he would need to give a warning and an order to bring their tickets to the police station in the morning to an official meeting, when inability to produce a valid ticket will constitute a break of parole. He hoped to also meet that seriously misguided man Monsieur Madeleine and try to talk the factory-owner into accepting the mayorship, even though something about his factory seemed suspicious.

 

As he systematically intercepted the departing workers, he noticed not only their unexpected courtesy but also that many of them turned their heads and glanced to a certain prominent window on the second floor of the factory wall. By the time Javert looked to it, all he saw were curtains hastily drawn followed immediately by the lamp light going dark. As clearly the was closed for the day, Javert did not think much of this and simply kept on his task.

 

\---

 

Behind the window, Père Madeleine cowered inside his office. He had been alarmed by the small group of policemen who had gathered at the workshop’s door, and worried that something had happened in town which they had come to report.

 

Any sign of rationality fled from him at the very moment he saw the officer, a newcomer which resembled one man he knew in his past. Javert. No longer a guard now, from the looks of it a high-ranking policeman.  A twinge of hope went through his body, lasting only an instant, to become devastating anger.  When he saw how that policeman checked his worker’s documents, he felt only dread.

 

He feared his workers will be arrested, that he would be found and asked to show his faked papers, that the factory would be shut down…..

 

Or perhaps this was merely a trick of his imagination. What had he seen, after all? A top hat, bushy sideburns and a caped grey coat… not only were these not enough to distinguish one man from another, but none of them were features shared by the guard. However, the roar that rose within him shouting the name of Javert rejected all reason.  It became increasingly obvious to Madeleine that this could be an attempt by the devil which haunted his dreams to invade even his reality.

 

He waited for an eternity, until he heard the sound of people die down and he was more than certain everyone had gone, before he peeked through the curtains for a confirmation. Then he walked up a floor to his room and, with quaking hands, lit a pair of candles to place onto the beloved silver candlesticks on his mantle. Madeleine was soon caught by the comforting glow; running a hand through his hair, he collapsed in a chair.

 

What if that man really was Javert?  In that man - rude, treating good men like criminals, unforgiving - he saw nothing to be missed, nothing but proof that the beast he once was held only onto an illusion. Could Javert have been sent by God to test his faith through his darkest desires, rejected long ago? Maybe Javert was here just to torture him, because this man's presence alone would be enough to get him away from his path of selfless service and his quiet life. If this was the will of God, the Almighty had chosen for him the fastest and most painful way to martyrdom. Madeleine deserved no less. With resignation, he prayed for strength to fulfill his destiny.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First three chapters are on the long side, and we will stick to a one chapter a week schedule (approximately US time Saturday evening) until further notice. These early chapters were difficult to write due to all the setting up of characters and plot lines we had to do, the writing and the updating should get faster soon...  
> \---  
> * MsM fortification history: http://www.fortified-places.com/montreuil/


	35. Tale of a Walking Corpse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funeral scene edited October 30, 2014. - fengxiaoj

Monsieur Madeleine looked up from the smudged sheets on which he had been doing calculations and the wine bottle, absolutely out of place on his unembellished, functional desk, caught his eye. It was common practice for his foreign clients to arrive with some traditional liquor of their hometowns as gift. Madeleine, surprised at first, had learned to accept them with a grateful smile and to return their friendly gesture with bottles of his own. He devoted considerable time and effort to learn which wines from his own country were appreciated abroad. Within a few months, he had earned the reputation of being a connoisseur and lover of good wine. The reality was that he drank only water.

 

Taking the bottle between his fingers, Madeleine turned it around to read the label: "Sherry". Truly an excellent wine, which would add to the ones already languishing on his room’s shelves waiting to be given away, probably to Monsieur le Curé. 

 

Madeleine rose from his worn leather chair and gathered up the strings of rosaries strewn across a corner of his desk, product samples which were shown and discussed during the business meeting which ended just moments earlier.  Señor  Pérez, a man who never tired of chatter, had always called him "friend" since their first meeting years ago, completely unaware that he shook the hand of a man who wore too many scars to have friends.

 

When Pérez requested his company for some much needed "action" before being locked in the carriage tomorrow for his tedious journey back to Spain, he could tell from the mischievous wink what such "good times" must entail: drinking and an evening in the town’s most luxurious brothel, in which Pérez was quickly becoming known. Madeleine politely but emphatically declined citing the usual fabricated work obligations. It was certainly easier to lie to a man who expected one, perhaps he should be grateful for this.

 

With a frown, he checked his pocket watch for the time.  While on his morning walk he had noticed a  black crepe across the church's front door  and, as usual, had inquired on the identity of the deceased  -  a farmer whom he hardly knew -  and the hour of the funeral service. Thinking that he would only be a few minutes early if he left now, he put on his coat and headed out. 

 

\---

 

Upon entering the church, his concerns faded to almost nothing and he was able to savor a moment of peace.

 

Funerals were not pleasant affairs, but they were the only place in which the presence of a stranger was appreciated. Before the unrelenting reality of death, even the man Père Madeleine, undemonstrative and distant, ceased to be alone. Indeed, the deceased’s relatives were always thankful for his clumsy words of comfort, even if they never managed to grasp the true meaning of his message: the funeral mass was the door to heaven, and to die was not a tragedy but a promise of something better. Eventually, he stopped trying to be understood.

 

After the service, Madeleine offered his condolences to the widow, a middle-aged woman broken by grief and handed an envelope to her eldest son. To help defray the initial costs, he said. Then he departed  o n the  rue de la Licorne , where he spotted a little girl humming and making breads with mud at the door of her house. Smiling at the sight, Madeleine patted the pockets of his coat to find the straw doll he had carefully tied early in the morning. He approached the child and stooped low to hand her the toy.

 

The dirty little hands shot out, not to the doll but to his neck, her tiny arms struggling to embrace his wide frame. Caught by surprise, Madeleine instinctively tensed for a moment, until the fragile little body slammed into his shoulder and shook while she hugged him with all her strength. Madeleine smiled again, helpless against the unexpected token of appreciation. Sometimes, as now, it was easy to confuse gratitude and affection; but Madeleine had no right to be loved by that child, or by any other child.

 

The girl smelled like butter ,  just as the children who crowded his table many years ago, hoping to find food on their plates. Times had not always been bad. There were sunny days in which Marcel had climbed awkwardly on his shoulders reaching for the sky, afternoons where Julie extracted a splinter of his hand with unnecessary precaution, evenings when  Petit  Pierre had nibbled a crust of bread to ease the pain of his gums and Jeanne had laughed to see the baby grimacing in disgust.

 

But in his youth he had coped with the grim reality of their lives by keeping his head low instead of playing with the children who were each a blessing, before they were taken away.  Now he made toys to give joylessly to little strangers, searching in every smiling face for a gesture capable of reminding him of the forgotten little faces. Sometimes it happened, like today.

 

Swallowing through the lump in his throat, Madeleine gently removed the mud caked little hands from his collar and straightened. Feeling that a smile would not be enough, he reached down again to place a gentle kiss on the child’s head, inhaling one last time the scent which accompanied him through his younger years.  Then he made his way back to the factory thinking that for the first time since October came, the sun peered out from behind gray clouds.

 

\---

 

At three after noon, Inspector Javert entered  the cemetery Saint Justin and made his way to the open vault just as the funeral procession approached with the coffin on their shoulders.  Wet grass flattened under his boots as he crossed the undulating field decorated with gravestones  of men who defended this town against the English hundreds of years ago.  Raindrops dripped from his top hat and beaded all across the capes of his coat.  The name of the deceased was Caron. He, the  Acting Registry officer, had only learned of this death from the  obituary column of the local paper.

 

Javert, with his towering frame,  had little trouble locating Caron's widow and children in the small crowd. Looking straight into the  confusion and suspicion in the eyes  of  the eldest son, he raised his hat respectfully and offered his condolences. Then he extended his oversized hand,  clad in a white glove stained with lamp smoke, and declared in his powerful voice, "Stop the burial. You have not reported this death and this man is not yet dead to the law."

 

The initial surprise of the family became open hostility when Javert informed them that the illegal burial they had planned was a serious offense against the civil order. If natural deaths were not reported, violent deaths could not be detected and given due diligence by the law. For Javert, this entire episode was a prime example of the unenlightened mentality of many of the locals, which was sometimes disrespectful to the modern legal system. When he retrieved from his pocket his trusted notepad and began to ask the necessary questions on the identity of the deceased and circumstances of death,  many angry voices were raised.

 

"But everyone knew he had been sick for months!" they said, and, "All the information is in the obituary, he was not assassinated on his deathbed!"

 

If only they had filled out the form, it would have saved him this trip. Not that he was complaining about the opportunity for some fresh air. "Yes Messieurs, that is all I need to know, cause of death is sickness, and date of death October eleventh?" 

 

"Yes!" they cried, impatient for him to leave. Javert tipped his hat and obliged. This was only one page in the mountain of unfinished paperwork waiting for him back in the office. 

 

\---

 

Madeleine slumped on the chair in his room and succumbed to the icy dread he felt in the pit of his stomach, but which now spread all the way to his limbs. 

 

News of an unbelievable scandal at the funeral of Père Caron, because some barbaric Police Chief felt the need to stop a body from being returned to earth, had spread through his factory floor like wildfire. Madeleine assumed the version he heard to be a fabrication of the collective imagination, some small real event massaged by each carrier to make it more "juicy', more "dramatic". This was usually the case since such gossips found its way to his ear very late, if at all. At least, this was what he thought until his foreman mentioned a name: Chabert.

 

He called upon all his years of experience living under the skin of another man to react with an unreadable expression, and kept checking his inventory as if he found this particular morsel of gossip to be as uninteresting as the rest. However, drops of sweat ran down his back, leaving the hatred and anger, which with God's help he had buried again and again, exposed to his own eyes.

 

In the privacy of his room, fear came in waves and after it came the dark need - irrepressible and devastating - that had devoured his will several years ago and now only manifested in his dreams. It took only a few minutes for his thoughts to return to those images and conclude that Javert was the only good part in the recurring nightmare.  Then it had taken hours of ferocious struggle before he was able to return to his usual state of apparent placidity. 

 

With still trembling hands, he  untied his tie - a stupid invention designed to dignify the man through strangulation - and plunged his spoon into the bowl of cold soup, determined to keep his routine despite the untamable roar which swelled inside him. But it was useless: the fragile world of Père Madeleine had come to an end. Now he must fight to keep his soul from the temptation of sin and from an eternity in hell.

 

\---

 

The police station, especially the rear corner at which Javert worked, was dank and smelled of mold. Officers he sent out on patrol had been bringing back rain and mud which had accumulated for the whole day. Smoke stains colored the aging walls. Now, hours past sunset, a majority of the men had  long gone to report to their second jobs, as was the norm even in cities with a much larger policing force than this town. They were  shoemakers, carpenters, and masons, as much as they were officers of the law. This was unsatisfactory but Javert understood that he was meant to work with the resources available.

 

Inspector Javert toiled away by the light of three lamps, two of which he had borrowed from now vacant nearby desks and pressed into service. When his tired and watering eyes still struggled to comprehend messy reports filed by people he did not know, describing events which occurred while he was physically halfway across the country, he removed all three  smoke-blackened lampshades and kept working. It seemed that his duty here in Montreuil-sur-Mer was to delegate away all the work he wished to do himself to ensure it was done well. This was its own kind of prison sentence, but a necessary step for him to earn the promotion which  Commissaire  Chabouillet and Captain Thierry wanted for him for so many years.

 

Left forgotten on his desk, pushed away to the far corner in favor of more unfiled paperwork, was a half-eaten loaf of bread and the cup of water in which it was dipped. Bread crumbs floated on the top of the water and were bloated into an unappetizing sludge. His landlady did not serve meals and his work hours were too long and too irregular for him to manage better. Perhaps one of these days one of his subordinates would recommend a good local brasserie, where he could eat a simple hot meal at any time of day. 

 

A few minutes past midnight the officer on duty arrived late, wearing wrinkles in his jacket and a stain on the visible parts of his shirt.  Javert replied to his greeting with a taciturn nod and delivered his lecture about punctuality as a sign of respect for duty. Ten minutes later, reasonably certain that such behavior will not be repeated, Inspector Javert returned to his work.

 

Referring to the baked-dry pages of notes he had taken at the funeral, he completed the last lines of the death report and eagerly rose from his seat to read through it one last time for errors while pacing around the stove set as high as he could justify to be necessary. A small piece of fractured coconut shell lay on the ground, drying in the heat. He had relished the opportunity to travel back to the station from the cemetery by way of dark alleys. This was one piece he had picked out from many, curiously piled in a mud ditch, for further inspection at a later date. 

 

He signed the report and laid it next to the others on the vacant desk he had repurposed for blotting and drying. A wearied glance back to his desk informed him that this was yet another day where he would leave the stack of unfiled papers as high as when he had arrived in the morning. 

 

He retrieved Gymont from the top of the stack and dropped the nut into his pocket. Then he informed the officer on duty he will return within ten minutes before he stepped through the double doors for some air.

It was a clear night. Heavy rains during the day had rid the sky of clouds revealing how well it was lit by sparkling stars.  On a small street just off the main road where the police station and Mairie were located, he saw walking towards him a silhouette lit by oil lanterns and the gentle wash of white light from the heavens.

 

In an instant, the inspector felt chills through his core which made him shake. Something about this man seemed familiar. He felt his heart pound against his ribs, thumping as anticipating his body to be in motion, and supplying it with the blood flow required.

 

Who was this man in Javert's eyes? He was a man of average height, broad-shouldered, graying, and impeccably dressed. He walked with a limp which was more of a nuisance than a debilitating handicap. This man was bourgeois but not one who had been clothed in velvet from birth, because his wealth was reflected in his clothes in its conservative, dignified style, not high fashion like those strutting the streets of Paris.  Only after an uncharacteristically long moment did he bow his head and introduce himself. "Monsieur-" he said, swallowing down a warning against solitary walks this late at night. A man like this must have his reasons for doing such a thing.

 

The man, noticing him, looked up and smiled. "It is Monsieur Madeleine, inspector," he offered his name raising a finger to the brim of his hat in greeting, but did not slow his steps.  The smile did not seem forced, yet there seemed some lack of authenticity about it.

 

Javert turned and watched the man go. At first he could only see the flowing black coat and large physique, but eventually his mind adapted to that rush of blood and remembered who this man reminded him of. The convict about whom  Commissaire  Chabouillet was so right and he, naive guard Javert, was so wrong.  He knew how a man could have walked through so much of his life dragging a  _boulet_ with his right leg that neither the removal of this  _boulet_  nor release from the  _bagne_ would ease the burden of his steps. The weight was a scar left not on skin but burned into bone, one which a man could only be freed of in death. This Monsieur Madeleine walked as if each stride forward was one made against an insurmountable weight,  and Javert could almost see not only the _boulet_ skidding across the cobblestone road, but the red smock on his back, even the cap on his head. It said "24601".

 

Javert's blood boiled and he reached for the nut in his coat pocket. A convict who had no understanding of civility, no respect for the rule of law. A convict who kept trying to escape from his just sentence and then, at the end of it, broke parole and returned immediately to his criminal ways. Under the law theft was theft, no matter the victim, but it took a certain degree of baseness to steal the earnings from a young chimney sweep and to rob a bishop of his silver. 

 

That was a convict who needed to be sent back for a life sentence. This man, Monsieur Madeleine, was well-respected in the town, successful and educated. It was a disruption of peace just to entertain the thought that this man was a parole-breaker with crimes on his name. Javert forced himself to turn away and walk back to the station. What was he to do? Call for the man to stop and accuse him of lying? What an absurd notion.

 

He rubbed his head with his fingers. The clean air and the sight of the stars had cleared his headache, and this Monsieur Madeleine had extinguished within him any desire for sleep. Perhaps he still had hope to get to the end of the stack and finally see the surface of his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be a big one. :)


	36. A Distressing Fool

Mea culpa, we forgot this note when we first posted. This chapter, which I told several of you about as being "big" before ended up too big to fit into one chapter. This is the Javert half, next Saturday will be the Madeleine half. We both fell ill this week so despite initially wanting to post the second half on Tuesday, we could not get enough writing done during this week to feel comfortable doing so. -- fengxiaoj and groucha.

\--------

 

"You will be married?" the acting Commissaire Javert asked the young man and _demoiselle_ standing before him, who seemed too busy smiling at each other to make eye contact with him. "Yes Monsieur," the young man responded cheerily, his smile nearly splitting his face in half. Javert nodded and, when there was no second response, gave the _demoiselle_ a pointed look.

Flushed like the color of a tomato, she stopped smiling and fidgeted. "Yes," she said, staring down at the floor as if it suddenly became very interesting.

Javert interpreted this to be reasonable shyness given the situation. Furthermore, he watched for a split second how the fingers of their joined hands were intertwined and decided that they were unlikely to change their minds tomorrow. He nodded and, with his usual strict efficiency, asked for their names and the date of their wedding to complete the necessary paperwork. "Congratulations," he declared as he pushed the official stamp onto the page in a manner which conveyed a sense of finality, "Come back again when you have your first child." This made the demoiselle start smiling again, and he shooed them away.

Rising from his desk Javert paced to stretch his aching legs and rear. He was perhaps a bit taller than the occupant his desk was made for. From where he stood too close to the stove, he cast a glance at the frosted glass window on the double doors saw no raindrops. The seasonal rains had been a true nuisance, to the point of causing the number of crime reports to have dropped. Did this mean the townspeople felt it was not worth the hassle of making a trip to the police station under heavy rain to report on smaller crimes? He hoped not.

All the way at the front, the young couple finally made their exit after receiving warm congratulations from the other officers. Through the open doors Javert heard what sounded like shouts, even screams, faint in the distance. "Did you hear that?" he asked as he rushed out the door. The sounds were real and increasingly frantic. He left the station chasing them, his trusty weighted combat cane in hand.

 

A large crowd of agitated onlookers blocked the middle of an unpaved alley, some pointing fingers and others appealing desperately for help. Javert knew that in his new capacity resolving public emergencies was as much a part of his duty as the eradication of crime, and he called for the crowd to part so he could see and assess the situation quickly. A cart was sinking into a large patch of mud at an alarming rate with an old man trapped underneath its frame. The horse, still tethered to the cart it used to pull, fought valiantly against the mud kicking madly, even though its two hind legs were both shattered and bent at unnatural angles. In its desperation it only succeeded in loosening the mud even more and causing the cart to sink ever faster. Javert pulled his pistol out from his coat and fired a shot clean through the horse's head.

Spectators screamed and the animal slumped to the ground, but the cart was still sinking.Javert scanned the crowd as he ordered everyone to stand back. There was no shortage of able-bodied men present and willing to help, but there was nothing to grip and lift with except the bottom of the cart, which they would need to step into the mud and risk becoming a second victim to reach. More importantly, the frame was resting across the old man's sternum in such a way if the cart was dropped from a failed attempt to lift it, his ribs would get crushed from the impact. Javert furrowed his brows and cleared his throat. "Where is the closest jack?" he called, his voice loud and clear, "How long for it to come?" Yet his question received no response besides a stir of activity in the back of the crowd. He called again, louder. “Where can I find a cric?”

A man at the front of the crowd responded, "One which has a big enough base not to sink right into the mud, it will take at least a quarter hour." There were more harsh whispers and gasps from the crowd, as it was clear to everyone the old man already gasping for breath may not even last another minute. Javert nodded and sent this clear-headed man to bring back the first cric he could get his hands on, even if it seemed too small. Then he sent a boy to go bring the priest to give the old man his last rites.

"Is no man brave enough to go lift the cart?" called a recognizable voice from the back of the crowd. "I will pay five gold Louis."Javert recognized the voice before the crowd parted and he saw Monsieur Madeleine standing near the back. "Ten gold Louis!" he called, with a trace of desperation which made Javert wonder whether he was close to this old man. "Twenty!"Javert could see that a few young men were unbuttoning their coats or rolling up their sleeves, glancing at each other and burning with torturous indecision: jump out now, or wait for the number to go higher? Twenty gold Louis, that wasfourhundred _francs_ , a big enough sum to make a man do things he would normally never be stupid enough to do.

This shocking lapse in judgment by Madeleine, a man whom all the locals claimed could do no wrong, actually humanized him in Javert's eyes. A cart this large, already sunk so low into mud, was impossible for a single man to lift. The strength required would be so extraordinary that - his heart skipped a beat - he only knew one man who could do it. A convict who once looked at him the way the young couple looked at each other. "Your money, Monsieur Madeleine, will not make them strong enough to do it," he said, in an attempt to put an end to this before several men rushed out at once and fought to squeeze under the cart. "In all my years I've known only one man - a convict in the _Bagne_ at Toulon - who would have a chance. He was known as Le Cric."

Madeleine smiled in resignation, almost as if acknowledging the truth in his statement, as he walked up to the cart. Javert did not stop him only because he presented himself as a calm man who knew exactly what he was doing. But when Madeleine dropped to his knees and crawled face down under the cart, Javert watched in horror as his heart was torn between guilt, for failing to stop an important man in the community from possible suicide, and visceral, distressing memories of the convict this man resembled. A convict whom he, decades ago, wished to protect from harm for reasons which defied understanding, and whose suffering caused him significant distress. That the convict was not worth saving did not erase the memory nor make it any less distressing. Under the cart Madeleine was still face down in the mud, unmoving, almost as if he had already suffocated to death; all around him the crowd shouted and cursed, for the first time taking his side on a situation. But all of this only made him feel more distressed. He fought against a burning, irrational need to rub his eyes with his hands, because it was his duty to monitor the situation.

Yet after some seconds the impossible happened. Madeleine began to draw his limbs in towards his torso, etching deep parallel lines into the mud. Every millimeter was a battle against the mud, which he was sinking into, and so despite his Herculean effort the cart had barely lifted from when he began. Nearby, the trapped man with no strength or breath to scream whispered hoarsely, "Go, save yourself!" Yet the man labored at his own deliberate pace as everyone watched with bated breath, and eventually, when he finally got his palms and knees under his chest, he pushed through his limbs. A loud grating creak emanated from the cart, and then it rose the crucial few centimeters above the mud for the slippery frame to be possible to grip.  

"Lift it!" There was something uncontrolled, almost bestial in Madeleine's hoarse shout.He could not see it, but Javert already had a man in each hand, directing them around the frame so they would not get into each other's way. Within seconds there were twenty men around the length of the cart, and a single organized push tilted the cart onto its side, freeing the two underneath.

Madeleine was able to stand on his own, and helped the old man called Fauchelevent up for the others to take to his hospital before he brushed some mud off of his coat.While Javert worked with the volunteers to push the cart off to the edge of the narrow alley, everyone in the crowd sensed that the danger has passed and starting speaking at once.

"Didn't Monsieur Fauchelevent always blame Monsieur Madeleine for bankrupting his business?" voices were asking, and others were responding, "Yes I am sure of it! What a saintly man Monsieur Madeleine is!" Of course, some were more malicious, "That dog-faced Fauchelevent would show himself to be an ungrateful bastard if he continues to argue against the nomination for Monsieur Madeleine to be appointed _Maire_!"

Amidst passionate calls for Madeleine accept the appointment and some offers of water or tea for the kind Monsieur before he went home, Javert took off his top hat and wiped the sweat from his face with trembling fingers. By the time he looked up again the man they called Père Madeleine had already limped halfway down the street, dragging his right foot across the mud like a baggage, as if he had injured himself. The man was dirty, in a way which made Javert feel the grime acutely, an unwashed stain on his own being. Certainly upon his arrival in this state, a man of his social status would be swarmed by servants eager to wash him. With a scowl Javert lowered his eyes to his own caked and soiled boots, the only things he should think about cleaning. He told himself there was no reason to feel such distress or to be distracted while on duty.

No one looked good here; perhaps the townspeople had no idea how close Madeleine was to causing a second man to die, but he knew. He also knew how close that man came to death -- a small slip or brief moment of indecision would have been enough for the cart to kill even a man strong enough to lift it. That man was a distressing fool. The only one who had done its duty today was the horse - he thought sadly - and it was dead.

He announced to the crowd that there was no more to see, and the crowd dispersed naturally moments later when someone farted.

Javert turned back to the cart. The front axle had broken and now it lay in the middle of a road already made difficult to navigate by the muddy patches. By law this would be the vehicle owner's responsibility to deal with, but since that man Fauchelevent would likely be in the hospital for weeks… the police would have to haul it away. He signaled for one of his subordinates, who had just arrived to the scene, and instructed him to carry all the items inside the cart back to the station for storage. Finally he nodded to himself: later he will send a _gendarme_ to deliver the illegal parking notice to the hospital.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ticket Javert handed to Fauchelevent:
> 
> 1810 Criminal Code Art. 475 (Second Class Offenses)
> 
> Shall be punished with fine from six to ten francs francs inclusive,
> 
> 3\. Ro-ro, carters, any car drivers or beasts of burden, which would have violated the regulations by which they are obliged to be constantly within reach of their horses, beasts of burden or load and their cars, and status to guide and lead; to occupy one side of the streets, roads or highways; to turn away or store in front of all other cars, and at their approach, let them free at least half of the streets, roads, highways and roads;


	37. The First Crack in the Shell

Madeleine closed the door to his room with the weight of his full body as he collapsed against it. 

During one of his unsuccessful attempts to gain footing against the viscous mud, the weight on the cart had slipped on his back and wrenched his lamed ankle. He was so exhausted that he nearly tripped on the steps more than once, but at last he was safe. When that voice in his dreams called that name, the beast had rushed forward like a dog to its master. Only God's grace had prevented him from betraying himself. 

He leaned back and took a shuddering deep breath, straining against not only the too familiar pain on his back but an almost debilitating burn across his entire body, a sensation so strange and so distant in his memory that it could well have belonged to another man. With his eyes locked resolutely onto the simple wooden cross which hung on the headboard of his bed, he found the strength to shed his coat and his pants and abandoned them in a messy pile before he went to wash off his hands and face. It would certainly be a sacrilege to let his rosary pass between muddy fingers. 

He felt so wearied in mind and body that he could not keep count as he recited his prayers, not even when quaking fingers managed to advance only a single rosary bead instead of two or three, but this did not diminish his euphoria. God had granted him the strength of Le Cric so he could save a life, almost certain to be lost otherwise. To be an instrument in God's hands meant that he must overcome his own petty, mortal fears, even when Javert had almost certainly seen through his disguise and found the ugly, unholy part of him. Tomorrow morn he would accept the King's appointment - his fears and the traitorous beast inside him be damned. 

Unable to complete his prayers nor to bear the touch of fabric on his skin, he stripped off his shirt and laid face down onto his bed, naked and trembling, his fist gripping the rosary as a drowning man would cling to his only lifeline. The sound of Javert calling his name echoed in his mind, now no longer a distant memory and even more real, more immediate than before. He feared to sleep and stared at the faded beige color of his bedding, telling himself that he had seen enough and heard enough to know that the young man in his dreams no longer exists. He felt the rosary beads between his fingers and reminded himself that twenty years, twenty-three to be exact, was longer than many people had to live. Far too long to be trapped in a dream. Overwhelmed by the exhaustion and with this thought in his mind, he closed his eyes. 

  


\--- 

  


In the void-like darkness of the cachot the chained door creaked before crashing into the stone wall, no more capable of holding back the sea than a small piece of drifting weed. Lock and chain shattered, as did the silence. Jean Le Cric, face plastered against his bed of moldy wood and left to languish for his crimes with only his own breaths for company, listened. The sound of restless waves sloshing, splattering against the pillars beneath the docks reached his ears and a familiar voice called his name. "Le Cric," it said, "Le Cric," urging him to believe for just a moment that the darkness around him was only because he had traded his sight for his freedom. 

Sweaty palms on weakened arms slipped against wood as he fought to lift his torso - he was unable to lift his head and face the sound by simply arching his back. He had been stripped of his only identifying trait: the extraordinary raw muscular strength for which he was named. His existence was being abraded away by a hollow shell determined to prove its own moral superiority. 

Jean Le Cric seethed in his rage, too tired, too exhausted to be capable of anything but hate. When he rose with an anguished roar, chain links scattered onto stone and banished what was left of the silence. All he could see where he knew the door to be was a small silver anchor levitating eerily above eye-level and, hovering some distance below it, a pair of white gloves. He walked the two steps he was allowed until the chain pulled taut against his ankle, then he squared himself and watched his visitor through the empty doorway, separated only by the sparkling remains of the shattered door. He did not need to be able to see the face to know who this was: this guard was the first thing to go away, long before his strength. 

The guard did not show any signs of wanting to enter, and Le Cric inhaled deeply so he could communicate his pain and incomprehension: Why? Why do you stay at the door, judging me? How dare you torment me year after year, so close, so out of reach? But his parched throat, the throat of a man kept under chains until he had turned into a beast, produced only a string of inarticulate growls. Why was even a figment of his own memory tormenting him so mercilessly? When the guard remained motionless, Le Cric simply leaned forward, grabbed what was his and flung it into his room. 

Le Cric's cold eyes, fiercely defiant, fell on the guard slumped against the wall. He lowered himself, nostrils flaring with each searing breath, and laid his palms onto the flickering, uniform-clad chest hoping for a warmth, a heartbeat, only to find neither. 

Bewildered and unable to bear his disappointment, he clawed his fingers and involuntarily, repeatedly digging into the barely tangible body. Any reaction would have been welcome, even rejection, yet Javert remained lifeless. There was no mass, no weight, no substance. Le Cric leaned against the wall and wailed in grief, the same throaty and broken sound of a man sobbing, even though a beast such as him was incapable of tears. 

He grabbed at the prominent pair of white straps which crossed at the center of the chest and when he caught them, he crushed them in clenched fists and used them as handles to slam the guard hard into the wall. He slammed the guard back into the wall of his prison again and again, growling, his fists sinking into what should be a chest with each impact, hard enough to break bone. 

Only frozen silence answered his attempts to communicate and the beast, with the guard still dangling from his hands, desperately searched his surroundings for another way. But there was nothing and, unable to control himself, he flung the body repeatedly into the wood plank of his bed with murderous strength, no pause, no remorse, harder and harder until he ran out of breath. 

The guard made no attempt to defend himself, but though the silver anchor on Javert’s tall hat tilted to one side, everything below it -- the uniform, the gloves, the boots -- remained neat and tidy, still flickering with a spectral glow. Le Cric saw that Javert was unharmed but, somehow, for reasons perhaps beyond a beast's ability to comprehend, he was not infuriated by his powerlessness anymore. 

Le Cric leaned the figure upright against the wall using the straps and gazed intently into the nebulous silhouette protruding from the uniform collar while his broad chest heaved from his gasping breaths. Javert had no face. Disheartened but undeterred, Le Cric glanced up at the hat high in the air and realized that somewhere between the collar and the hat were a mouth, nose, and eyes, even if he was denied the sight of them. Calloused palms smoothed the rumpled straps against the chest then followed them up to where they draped across each shoulder. Feeling the sloped muscles where the neck met each shoulder, Le Cric delivered a firm shake -- a warning, perhaps an apology for what he was about to do. He remembered little of Toulon before Javert and virtually none of it after. Now he shackled the guard with his own body and tried to make this dream compensate for twenty lost years. 

Le Cric rose off his heels to and thrust parted lips forward, and, with the contact, tendinous flesh burst into being against his lips; he had kissed Javert's throat, capturing the bobbing, vibrating bone at the front. He ravenously suckled the skin he found there as his hands whisked up and down the back, attempting to calm the man in his arms with inexperienced touches; his bulging arms tremored with effort to press the body into his chest, as a vise possessed an object found between its jaws. Soon he rubbed not just with his hands but with his entire body, and the contact, the friction, produced a sensation of warmth where there was none before. With a hand cradling the back of the neck he pulled low the young face still shrouded in darkness, so he could find the lips. If the crashing waves he heard and the trembling he felt under his tongue were signs that the guard was trying to stop him, he could not hear a word of it. It was only when Javert shuddered and shook his head desperately that abject revulsion gripped Le Cric's throat. He did not want to be yet another man to take by force what Javert was unwilling to give. 

He stumbled backwards, but the back of his thighs almost immediately crashed into the edge of his bed and he sat heavily onto it, gripping the edge of the plank with his hands to stop them from doing more things they should not. He tried to allow the guard to leave, but Javert bent down and the levitating hat, still tilted, descended to the level of his eyes. Le Cric understood this to be a silent request for him to adjust the hat, perhaps because Javert did not wish to walk down the halls with his uniform in disarray, but when he reached to adjust it his fingers fell right through the visor no matter how he tried. Le Cric gave up and lowered his hands onto his thighs. In front of him Javert lowered himself even further to reach for and check the chain where it attached the underside of the plank. Chain links pinged and, thinking that this was what the guard had come to do, Le Cric waited despondently. 

"This chain is secure," Javert declared as he raised his head. "You are not free to leave, but you are still free to hate me." 

If it were possible for Le Cric to see himself in this godforsaken cachot, he would know that he looked as old as he felt, with strands of white in his beard, tufts of uneven white hair, and deep lines on the corners of his eyes, between his brows. He had been aged by the years which passed him by, unlike the flickering face in front of him, which was still that of a very young man. 

"Jean Le Cric," Javert said, his voice unusually hesitant, "there are many things you are free to do, but not everything you are free to do is worth doing." 

It did not surprise the convict that a man who could not understand a hug nor the simple question of whether he had been hurt, would not know to ask for the hate to stop. Jean Le Cric, moved by shame and remorse, reached for one of the white gloves and held on. It was the strip of white foam left behind by the untamed, feral waves which crashed to shore, only to seep right through Toulon's stone gravel as if there was nothing worth staying for. Yet if he were honest with himself, he could not blame anyone for not wishing to stay in the bagne. If he were honest with himself, he was happy for Javert that he had gone. Le Cric lowered his head until his chin rested on his chest as he brushed the warm gloved fingers with his thumb. An unfamiliar emotion stirred in his chest, powerful enough to compel even a beast to speak. "Do you know what I feel for you?" he whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. 

"No," Javert responded, his deep, powerful voice unexpectedly comforting. "But you now have another chance to show me." 

Jean Le Cric was a brute named for his strength. But the heart was also a muscle and, in him, it was extraordinary just like all the rest. It was perhaps the strongest of them all. And so he watched, mesmerized, as the blinding pall of hate lifted before his eyes and Javert's glove, covered with a gentle layer of fuzz from use, removed the tilted hat and dropped it into the sea. The hands were decisive, confident when they held onto Le Cric’s shoulder firmly, pushing him onto his side. Dawn was breaking, and the tides swelled. When Javert laid himself down onto the plank and pulled, the ebbing tides swept Le Cric seaward onto a lean, firm chest. Warm, with a beating heart. 

Jean Le Cric looked into his gray eyes, full of stormy clouds swept inland from the sea and marveled at the sight of a sky so foreign to him. Not Faverolles, not Toulon, but Montreuil-sur-Mer. A town which he did not know, but which Père Madeleine called home, and for the moment Inspecteur Javert called home. Two men who were no longer recognizable. Lost and intoxicated by the smell of saltpeter and unrefined soap, he sought anchor in the body in his arms. The face aged before his eyes as coarse beard crept and fulled across the chiseled cheeks, spreading even as the color was fading, until what was jet black before became streaked with gray. His soul softened by gratitude and tenderness, Jean Le Cric formed with his calloused fingers not a fist but a crude comb, and proceeded to sorted through the few stray strands that had become tangled. When that was done he looked into the eyes again and watched dark billowing clouds drift across the sky. As the first drops of rain fell, he felt Javert’s fingers pressing something hard and dry to his lips. Jean Le Cric tasted salt. 

  


\--- 

  


Madeleine sat hunched on the edge of his bed, his naked body sweaty and trembling as he sobbed into his hands. When he finally opened his eyes it was to a darkened room, sterile and scrubbed clean not just of dust and dirt but also of all possibility of warmth. 

He smeared some ointment on his back and tried to sleep. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sky of Chartreuseneuville (near MsM)
> 
> http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/2/2d/Chartreuseneuville04.jpg/1024px-Chartreuseneuville04.jpg


	38. He searches for a man, hidden in plain sight

Monsieur Madeleine made his way across the muddied snow with a somber resignation. He was to accept his mayoral appointment -- one which carried the King's signature -- in an official ceremony which he had not been able to avoid, and he expected this to be only the first of many instances where he must yield to the requirements of protocol to maintain the dignity of his new office. Exhaling a puff of breath he shook his head: in such cold weather he really would be doing more good out giving alms, though perhaps soon he will have enough power to ensure that people without shelter...

The gates of the Mairie swung open before him with a suddenness that sent a shiver down his spine, and then, before he had a chance to react, his arrival was acknowledged by a clearly waiting clerk with a deep bow.

"Monsieur le Maire, you are expected in the Council Hall," announced the man with satisfaction.

Madeleine gave the clerk a quizzical look and obediently followed, a slab of disgust and apprehension weighing heavily in his stomach. A burst of applause greeted his entrance. Madeleine, of course, had not forgotten to don his mask for such an occasion; he showed his appreciation with a tight smile and a nod before turning his attention to the Departmental Representative. The man, exquisite in his fine wool suit, approached Madeleine with outstretched hand and a broad grin then escorted the new Maire towards the dais. There,  Monsieur le Representant spoke of the foreseeable economic prosperity Madeleine's astute management will bring and pledged his unconditional support to the cause. Then, he bestowed Madeleine with the distinctive sash symbolizing his new rank.

Madeleine, subjected to a close view of the politician's thinning scalp and endlessly gesticulating hands, could not help but notice the ridiculousness of such pageantry in the honor of Jean Le Cric. He smiled until a new burst of applause drew him from his thoughts. The expectant faces who sought his eyes were, without a doubt, waiting for a few words. He was wholly unprepared.

"I want to thank everyone for your presence despite the inclement weather," he said looking to the crowd in the back, and then, addressing the councilmembers in the front, "And I understand that the council must have been overworked in the absence of a maire, so to take time to organize this ceremony was a big sacrifice. Please help me make Montreuil-sur-Mer a good town to live in." He received some lukewarm laughter for his efforts and Madeleine wasted no time to get off the stage only to be assaulted by the creme of Montreuil-sur-Mer's society.

Madeleine was forced to socialize with people he had avoided for years with patient determination. Many took the opportunity to express in no uncertain terms their expectations of starting a mutually beneficial partnership. The town priest confessed his hope for a full restoration of the _Saint-Saulve_ ’s roof, which certainly Madeleine was glad to do, but to him most of the others may as well have been speaking a different language, so removed from his reality were their agendas.   

Even respectable ladies who frequented the casino - for being the center of social life in town, of course - were there, hovering around him like a flock of magpies, eager to lay their claws on him. The oldest of them succeeded.

"Ah, Monsieur le Maire, you should know how happy we are for your appointment!" she exclaimed. Madeleine smiled and, once again, glanced across the room in search for someone, but without knowing whom.

"Yes," added another elderly woman, "Finally we will be rid of that man Javert who kept reminding everyone he was acting-Commissaire, as if he was so powerful! _Bon débarras_!" Madeline broke eye-contact when anger flashed across his mind; with the best smile he could manage, he excused himself and stealthed his way out onto the streets via the front hall. Stuffing the sash into the pocket of his coat, he was determined not to waste any more time.

The snow had begun to fall hard, a white cloak over the brown below; beggars were not able to brave the cold and Madeleine wondered where they had found shelter. Maybe some uninhabited house, an unguarded entryway.... maybe a wooden box. To his relief, the streets were deserted.

Around a corner, he caught sight of the tall figure which was moving with long strides and cane in hand, ignoring the cold, as he did. The interminable night had so worn his resolve that he could not avoid the encounter. Javert removed his hat and bowed respectfully. A cascade of fine snowflakes fell on his hair; the specks which landed on his face promptly melted away.

"Cover up, damn fool," roared a powerful voice inside Madeleine while his hands itched to reach across the distance between them. Instead, he gestured vaguely with his raised hand with a smile - "Ah, Inspector. Please this is not necessary” - and pointed towards the hat.

Javert nodded, unflappable yet solemnly obedient, and put it back on. "I am sorry to have missed your ceremony, Monsieur le Maire, and I am at your service. If Monsieur le Maire deems it appropriate, tomorrow I will officially hand over the documents I have in my custody," he said, his voice imbuing even the most mundane of requests with authority.

Madeleine forced himself to look away from Javert’s coat, well maintained but worn by use, to gaze at the emptiness down the street. "Bring me also a full report on the Department’s men and equipment. It is urgent." He tipped his hat in farewell, hoping that the task he entrusted to Javert would keep him away from the cold, perhaps next to a fire in a warm home. Then Monsieur le Maire limped down the street wearing his smile, even though no one was watching.

 ---

Thereafter, Madeleine was surprised to find how little things changed when he became mayor.

Madeleine was naturally receptive to congratulations and concerns of the common people, who assaulted him in the street and, seeing in him the Père Madeleine which had been just a humble worker a few years ago, they made him know that they considered his appointment as a personal triumph and the hope that better times were coming. He already was the man whose opinion was desired and respected for any major, and many minor, decisions. He already was the man people in need came to for help, either to start a new business or to end a plague of aphids.  Now they simply had to find him in the mairie instead of his office at the factory.

And then, within days of his appointment he received a letter from a Monsieur Chabouillet, _Commissaire_ of police in Paris. After consultation with the _Préfet_ at Arras, the decision was for Javert to remain for a month to ensure proper transition. At the end of the month, if in Madeleine's opinion Javert's presence was no longer necessary, Javert will be promoted away.

Madeleine recalled with uneasiness the day when Javert had come to deliver the documents of the Mairie and his report. The Inspector had maintained at all times his disciplined stance and an attitude of impeccable professionalism. Even during the first official meeting, in line with the measured words of Javert, Madeleine was still able to perceive the young guard’s reliability, which time had been unable to tarnish. The years that carried out in many men a labor of corruption, had respected Javert. But now, he was wiser: at some point, Javert had learned that it was not enough to be effective, now he also knew how to appear so.  Madeleine wondered how much would remain of the innocence he had worshiped.

For a few minutes, it was easy to be overcome by the false sense of attachment that had assaulted him the night of his appointment as he saw Javert’s face among those of people so familiar and yet unknown. That night, Madeleine did not experienced the brutal lust that devoured Jean le Cric after the young man left the Bagne, but the warmth of those days when Jean Valjean had dreamed of finding peace with him.

And suddenly, Javert made an unconventional request: he wanted to study a folder containing obsolete reports - closed cases which he wished to check through again.

Madeleine had agreed without showing doubts, but the alarms went off in his head. Old cases. Perhaps his own? After years of peaceful and respectable existence within this community, that seemed unlikely.  But Madeleine could not afford to forget again - not even for a moment - that Javert posed a terrible threat to him, precisely because he was able to do what others could not: to recognize him. In fact, he had no doubt that if Jean Valjean had any relevance to the former guard, he would have already recognized him. Perhaps it was only a matter of time.

Monsieur le Maire opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a manuscript document formalizing the request, and wearing at the bottom Javert’s signature without flourishes. He surprised himself passing the tips of his fingers on the straight and sharp strokes in search of answers which a sheet of paper could not offer.

  
\---

In the police station Chief Inspector Javert was in a good mood -- enough for him to have turned the stove up a bit higher than usual.

There was much cause for satisfaction. Of course it was only natural for the town's police force to be in a festive mood following the appointment of a new maire. But also, Monsieur Madeleine's sudden change of heart had initiated a storm of documents which required Javert's signature, enough to have kept him from seeing the new maire receive his appointment. Every single page of those had now been completed and sent off.

Though in his opinion it reflected poorly on the town for the former acting-Comissaire to not have been present at such a ceremony, he was able to pledge his allegiance to Monsieur le Maire that night, out on the street. When the maire requested from him a report, he felt honored to serve even before the new maire's first day in office -- even if his desk was quite possibly the last place he wished to spend another minute. This had also been completed.

Now Javert was adding his own name to the patrol assignments with feverish zeal.

Like all responsible supervisors, Javert considered it his duty as Chief Inspector to learn the strengths and weaknesses of each man under his command. It was also his sincere belief that all personal weaknesses should be eradicated. Therefore, just yesterday he had called everyone to attention and made a point of pulling open each and every desk drawer which he knew contained a secret cache of liquor. No words were required, because he had already lectured them enough for the culprits to know they should be ashamed. A similar exercise this morning saw that all the liquor was gone, and this pleased him greatly. He made his point this way not out of some new insight into human nature, no -- only a deep seated predilection for what was efficient. However despite his efforts some weaknesses still existed and so he worked to make sure that, for example, a man who was easy to startle would be matched with one who was very calm, or one with a poor shot would be paired with an expert marksman.

Unfortunately the town's former Chief Inspector, after celebrating his sixtieth birthday while the town had no maire, had elected not to alter his long-decided plans to retire and rejoin his family in Boulogne. Thus, Javert had only the notes - amounting to little more than anecdotes - his predecessor had left behind to inform his decisions.  

As soon as he posted the list on the board next to the front door, he rolled Gymont across the surface of his desk - devoid of papers for the first time in months - a few times before dropping the walnut into the usual coat pocket. He wiped the desk down with unsettling eagerness. The truth was that in the days since the traumatic cart incident, he had cleaned as many things as possible - obviously his boots and coat, but also his hat, his room; last night he even de-iced and shoveled the steps at the front of this police station - all in an attempt to make sure his inexplicable desire to clean Monsieur Madeleine would never return.  

Javert chided himself under his breath and gestured for his patrol partner, Vasseur, to follow him out. The men he left behind in the station seemed to collectively heave a sigh of relief. In his years Inspector Javert had come to view patrols to be more than just a policeman's duty, but also a cure for all of life's ailments, be it coughs, headache, fever, or irrational urges. In his youth he had thrown himself into this work with abandon to forget about the convict, and this time it will be no different. As for his suspicions of Monsieur le Maire, - those traitorous thoughts unbefitting of a chief inspector - he must think through them in his own privacy, as soon as possible.

His partner was a relatively young member of the squad. The former Chief Inspector commented on Vasseur's six years of service thusly: "A connoisseur of the sausage sandwich. Sometimes reported to duty with a sausage sandwich in one hand and a pistol in the other. Otherwise unspectacular." At least the man's large waistline was no longer a mystery.

Javert depended on Vasseur to provide the crucial local knowledge which a newcomer such as himself lacked.  Most importantly, Javert saw that Vasseur's weakness was different from his own: "Distressed by the sight of Monsieur Madeleine dirty or exposed to danger." At least this was what he wrote in the report… afterall, Monsieur le Maire had requested for the report to be thorough.

Perhaps the man would be distressed by the sight of a sausage sandwich, but that was irrelevant. Javert knew their patrol path had few restaurants.

Rue Pierre Ledent was one of the main thoroughfares in town; it entered the ramparts on the Southwest and cut across town diagonally, exiting the ramparts in the Northeast. Javert strolled down it, taking in all sights and sounds before him. Invigorating sunlight streamed down from a partially cloudy sky and lit a glittering sparkle onto the small areas of untrodden snow.The street was raucous and somewhat hazardous to the pedestrian because of the horses, carts, and the occasional fiacre weaving their ways around upturned or missing cobblestones while avoiding other traffic. Javert scowled; it had been clear to him for months now that the roads in town were built years ago when the town population was significantly lower. Unless many of them were completely re-paved and widened, Javert feared that the incident of the overturned cart would be repeated. He felt something in his chest and his expression became even more gloomy. Public infrastructure was the sort of affair which, for over a year, no one in town had the authority to deal with. Perhaps the new maire would see this as a priority.

Javert kept walking; despite adopting what was his normal pace, he was already forcing Vasseur to break into an occasional jog to keep up. Two women, possibly both in their early thirties, giggled at Vasseur's reddened face as they approached walking in the opposite direction. Javert frowned. As they were respectfully dressed with laced hats and parasols in their hands, Javert tipped his hat in greeting.

"Ah, Monsieur acting- _Commissaire_ , good day," one of them said, flashing him a sweet smile.

Many years ago Javert had come to the conclusion - though only after witnessing many of his colleagues get married - that upstanding citizens sometimes stared at each other in the exact same way that the damned convict stared at him. Naturally this made him wonder whether they also told each other things such as "You are very dear to me," and he had been watching carefully ever since.

"Yes Madame, no robberies yet today, but it is Monsieur l’Inspecteur now," he responded with a curt nod. She only smiled politely and turned back to her companion, and so, once again, he was disappointed.

He had been searching for so long that both the behavior and the inevitable disappointment had been subconscious until the recent situation with Monsieur Madeleine. Now he had become aware, with the additional realization that there was also little hope of this situation changing anytime soon. This was Javert's affliction. It was truly horrible.

A loud neigh behind him alerted Javert to turn his head. A cart had skidded to a stop, sending a loose cobblestone fragment airborne and flying all the way across the street. The cart following behind it swerved around the stopped one and continued traveling. Without hesitation Javert stepped out into traffic.

"Stop!" Javert roared, showing a single open palm to the rapidly approaching driver. "You are driving your cart at an unsafe speed!"

"Argghhh?!" Vasseur, who had sprinted up to Javert, attempted to pull him back to the side of the road by his dangling arm. But Javert stood as unmovable as a fortress. Well, a fortress which issued unsafe driving notices.

The cart narrowly avoided Javert and came to a full stop to his left. The bewildered driver yelled, "What? You crazy --" and was clearly about to launch into a vulgar-laden rant before realizing who the man in the coat was. "Oh, Monsieur l’Inspecteur!" the driver was nervously apologetic, " _Je suis désolé_ (I am sorry)…" Due to his having been trapped behind his desk, Javert had not established his usual reputation and recognizability in this town yet, but that will change soon.

Javert handed the driver his notice and fined him seven _francs_ * before finally stepping out of the way. "Do not be surprised next time," he declared dismissively, addressing the still horrified Vasseur.

He led his partner to Monsieur Madeleine's factory and stopped when he noticed that the prominent window on the second floor had been left uncurtained for the first time in months. Vasseur wordlessly leaned against one of the many trees outside the entrance to catch his breath.

"The new Maire has a habit of traveling, by Rue Pierre Ledent, between this factory and the Mairie at irregular hours. This is why I have increased police presence along the road," Javert explained to his partner.

"Yes, I see."

Javert thought for a moment that for a maire to spend so much time in a building with people of unclean histories -- it seemed unsafe. And then he swallowed against his helpless horror as the distress came again. A terrifying thought crossed his mind: at least the maire did not stare at him the way the convict did, otherwise his weakness would instantly turn into a calamity.

He lectured himself, finding calm in the fact that 24601 - or Jean Valjean, since his release - was a wanted parole-breaker whose case was being worked on by many officers superior to himself. What did it mean that Monsieur Madeleine resembled a convict who, honestly, was average-looking, while also possessing a similar extraordinary strength? Could he simply have been wrong about how extraordinary that level of strength was? He did not think it possible.

"Do you know how to request a criminal record from the prefecture?" he asked abruptly. When Vasseur nodded, Javert said, "I will give you the name when we return."

He had never been assigned on that case, since by the time the convict broke parole few remembered that he had even served in the _Bagne_ , and so he had never seen the document. Perhaps there was information in there which he did not already know.

"May I eat while we are stopped, Inspecteur?" Vasseur asked, gesturing with a sausage sandwich which had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

Annoyed, Javert turned and began to walk back the way they came. "No," he commanded. "Come, Vasseur, keep up. There is still much to do before we abolish all crime from Montreuil-sur-Mer."

No man was perfect; every man had his weakness. Javert kept looking. He could only console himself that he had already searched over a hundred cities and towns across France, and will likely have opportunity to search many more. Either he will find what he had been looking for or, perhaps, he would eventually become convinced that this person will never be found. Then he will finally be immune to both 24601 and vicious, blackmailing vermin like Solitaire.

Vasseur rewrapped his sandwich and tucked it back into his pocket. Abolish all crime? - he thought to himself - Then I will never get to eat on patrol again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bon débarras: good riddance  
> Je suis désolé: I am sorry
> 
> Also, you are welcome to exercise your imagination, but the typical sausage sandwich in the period resembled a salami sandwich in a French bread loaf.
> 
> The speeding ticket:
> 
> 1810 Criminal Code Art. 475: Shall be punished with fine from six to ten francs francs inclusive,
> 
> 4\. Those who have ... violated the regulations against loading, speed or the wrong direction of the cars;


	39. Whirlwind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for delayed posting.

Monsieur le Maire Madeleine was in his factory office reading through new orders when Javert knocked on his door and requested an urgent meeting. Some three weeks had passed since his appointment, and he had enough of an idea of Javert's work habits to know this was very unusual. Bile filled his throat and for a moment, his thoughts flew to bars and rations of beans, to truncheons and tarred ropes. But he invited Javert in - really he had not much of a choice - despite his bitter fear. 

  


Javert, for his part, acted as predictably as ever, just standing there cradling his hat after the usual greeting, perhaps only with his head bowed a bit more than usual. This was just enough for Madeleine to fight off an almost primal urge to keep his eyes locked on the door. And consequently he managed to ask, in steadied voice, for a moment so he could complete a signature and blot the ink -- and of course to act convincingly as himself, Monsieur Madeleine, a task once as mundane and practiced as washing his face each and every morning. 

  


Without being aware of it, his eyes drifted to the binder labeled “Police à Montreuil-sur-Mer” which sat on the far corner of his desk, coldly mocking him. When he requested the report he expected only a couple of pages asking for more staff and the replacement of worn material. Instead, Javert had submitted to him a thorough analysis of the equipment and the men who made up the department. "Distressed by the sight of Monsieur Madeleine dirty or exposed to danger", Javert had written about himself, and every time Madeleine read the words, they caused in him an emotion incomprehensible indeed, for a man who had an entire town at his feet: a yearning for what could have been. 

  


Had he been wrong all these years, in believing that his guard cared nothing for him? Does his chief inspector care for him now? But neither question was answerable now, not even with the man standing right there. 

  


He intertwined his fingers on the documents and directed towards Javert a smile so forced it almost resembled a bored expression, the best he could manage. "Yes, Monsieur l'Inspecteur, you have urgent business?" 

  


Javert nodded. "Monsieur le Maire, I have unavoidable personal business which necessitates a trip to Paris," he replied. "I will need at least one week away, but if you have already decided for me not to remain beyond this week, I will wait until then to make the trip." He sounded so apologetic and so uncomfortable that, once Madeleine's initial sense of relief had passed, the Maire felt stirring within him an almost unhealthy curiosity laced with something else, even more foreign, and even more potent. 

  


To send Javert away would be an act of self-preservation; between a choice of danger versus no danger, no man nor beast would hesitate and Madeleine did not. But this was a month ago and now, he felt that the choices before him had changed. Javert had somehow found his way into it, and now Madeleine's hesitation was incapacitating. 

  


With studied, polite interest, he requested for clarification. This must have confused Javert, because the man responded, after some thought, "It will require at least one week, because the business will take at least one day and each direction of travel will take three days --" 

  


"No, Monsieur l'Inspecteur," Madeleine interjected with sadness, cutting the man off. Suddenly, he understood how little Javert expected him to care. "What is this personal business, if you do not mind elaborating?" he asked. 

  


"Monsieur le Maire, the situation is with my record in the civil registry. Over the past four years there had been an ongoing effort to rid the registry of its many falsified and erroneous entries, and days ago mine was identified to be suspicious. This is why sending a letter to Paris would not be sufficient." Javert’s damned voice, deep and emphatic in his memory, now carried a touch of vulnerability. 

  


Despite some momentary bewilderment and fear, the utter irony of the statement nearly put a smile on Madeleine's face. But just as it was long ago, the man's response posed more questions than it answered. It did not feel appropriate to press further for clarification, so Madeleine asked instead: "And how will you resolve it in Paris?" 

  


"I will go retrieve my birth record, Monsieur le Maire, and explain in person that my given name was left blank intentionally, because I do not have one." Javert's voice was perfectly calm now and his demeanor unremittingly professional. "This should resolve the situation," he concluded with confidence-inspiring emphasis. 

  


This time, the answer was clear. Painfully clear. Somehow, Madeleine's first coherent thought through the storm of emotions was fully-formed, even if he had never contemplated it before -- "You are perfectly capable of telling me you need to leave. If only you told me back in the Bagne, you would not have poisoned my affection for you.” Horrified by the intensity of not just the anger which assaulted him, but also memories of feelings long buried and lost, he told himself he saw nothing in this man at all to be missed or to be loved. 

  


He smoothed the front of his coat in a gesture he hoped would seem casual, and forced himself to coldly consider the situation described by Javert. Many men and women, born in times of famine and revolution, often lacked names simply because they lacked parents willing to give them. Javert was simply one of the many abandoned or orphaned children, but why should he be surprised by this? He may not have known much about the guard, but he saw how Javert reacted to his attempts to show affection. There was nothing to be surprised by. 

“Then your registration will still have no given name -- will you not encounter the same problem again?” Madeleine asked, but his voice faltered. He cleared his throat. 

  


Javert bowed his head again. “That is possible, Monsieur le Maire," he admitted. "But all I remember being called was 'Javert'. Please, I did not intend to interrupt you for long, Monsieur le Maire." 

  


Madeleine pressed his lips together in a desperate effort to remain silent as he gazed at the top of Javert's graying head. A part of himself was shattering, and he saw it happen, as if a worker had inexplicably walked into his office and spilled full crates of the jet glass beads across his floor. In each misshapen, sharp shard he saw a different reflection of himself, none of them whole and all of them broken. 

  


Then he remembered how once he knelt far outside a chapel, as a different man, and saw his own face reflected in the guard's boots. Those boots -- the only part of Javert the convict, who must keep his eyes to the ground, could watch without attracting suspicion. Now, he could see almost everything but those boots, for they were blocked by his desk, and suddenly the desk no longer felt like something which kept him safe, but an unwanted barrier preventing him from seeing himself whole. But perhaps that was a good thing -- he feared to see in those shining boots a reflection of an aging convict who looked at his guard in awe. 

  


That beast knew that any man, for the simple fact of being born, deserved a name. But Javert had a name; he only lacked someone who pronounced it affectionately. Jean Valjean, a man Madeleine could still remember as himself, would put his arms around Javert and tell him that he was loved. What kept that man from doing so? A chain and a smock. What kept Madeleine from doing so? Nothing, only himself. 

  


“You can take this opportunity to give yourself a name?” Madeleine suggested, but his heart was not in it. The sadness he felt made him aware that he was helpless against the fierce tenderness the Inspector brought to his memory, the one that made him so human in the past. 

  


Javert bristled, shifting his weight almost imperceptibly. "Then, Monsieur le Maire, I will fill in the blank also with 'Javert'. Will that be satisfactory?" 

  


"Yes," Madeleine whispered. 

  


After a moment of silence, Javert spoke again. "Commissaire Chabouillet had given to them proof of my current employment so this could safely wait until my transfer, should you desire for me to leave, Monsieur le Maire." 

  


"Go now, and take a few more days if it would help, Monsieur l'Inspector. I wish for you to stay past this month. I will request for an Officier de Paix from Arras and I will recommend your name to the post." The Inspector’s only noticeable reaction was to nod and slightly set his jaw, and the only thing Madeleine felt was an inconsolable sadness. "Your superiors at Paris will be informed," he said. 

  


"Merci, Monsieur le Maire. I hope not to disappoint." With these words and a curt nod, Javert left. 

  


As the door clicked closed, Madeleine buried his face in his hands and curled into himself to the extent which was possible behind his desk. 

  


He drew his arms to his chest and endured the assault of emotions so frightening that for years, he preferred to leave them forgotten. Loss and love, two sides of the same coin that men regarded as different things, but which in his life, had been so terribly intertwined that he could not conceive of one without the other. Unable to breathe, he yanked at his tie and let out a sob. The first of many that shook his body until he was exhausted and defeated, like a leaf that had been caught in a whirlwind for too long, withered and torn asunder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History of civil status in France:  
> http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Histoire_de_l%27%C3%A9tat_civil_en_France#L.27.C3.A9tat_civil_au_XIXe.C2.A0si.C3.A8cle


	40. Patriotic Hatred of the Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For readers who saw the post I made mid-week, sorry about that - the adventures of the dolls are now posted as its own story: Montreuil-sur-Mer Doll Universe.

"Did they give you a lot of trouble?" 

" _Non_ , _Commissaire_ ," Javert replied. 

The situation with his registry turned out to only require a single morning at the _État Civil_ office inside the _Palais de Justice_ to resolve. The registry officer - not much older than half his age - had glanced skeptically between his birth papers in one hand and his police badge in the other, then proceeded to demonstrate a level of scrutiny measurable in hours. Javert was delighted. He thought not at all of how his own time was being wasted, but how a criminal with a fraudulent record would suffer. Therefore, he observed how everything worked inside the _Palais_ with the intent of teaching some of their expertise to his own department in Montreuil-sur-Mer. When it was finally time to leave, he wiped a spot of mud from the marble lion's mane with his handkerchief on his way out. It was not only not much trouble at all; to Javert, it was exactly how things should work. 

"Good," Chabouillet said, leaving aside the document in his hand to grant him full attention. "I received news of the petition for you to be appointed the first _Officier de Paix_ in Montreuil-sur-Mer. The town is big enough to justify it and it will soon be granted. Congratulations on the well deserved promotion, Javert." Chabouillet smiled and reclined into the padded back of his _bergère_. 

"Congratulations to you also, _Commissaire_ , for your promotion to _Sécrétaire du Préfet_ ," Javert replied. He had heard this being discussed while waiting in the lounge of the _Commissariat_. 

Chabouillet chuckled. "Yes, thank you, but I think yours will become official first, Javert." Having received only a nod in agreement, he gazed at the tall man who stood in front of his desk with head bowed, and lamented that once again a conversation with his _protégé_ had turned into a monologue. "Well? Are you happy working for this Maire?" he asked. "He seems to me a competent and nice man." Many good officers had found fault in Javert's personality in the past, even if few could find fault in Javert's character. 

Unbeknownst to Chabouillet, he had stumbled upon the exact question which needed to be asked. Almost immediately a scowl appeared on Javert's face as the look in the chief inspector's eyes grew distant and concerned. "What is it?" Chabouillet straightened up in his chair, alarmed. 

The ride from Montreuil-sur-Mer to Paris was, for Javert, a three day long nightmare of forced introspection. Confined in the too small seat, his knees constantly bumping into the traveler seated across from him, he had few options to pass the time but to think about the Maire. 

As with every time over the past weeks, he arrived at few conclusions. The town records only contained the various buildings the man purchased and a registration for when he started his factory, none of which was earlier than the last sighting of Jean Valjean in 1815. There were no records of the man's birth or origins, and though the few gossipers he posed this question to were each able to provide a response, no two of them were the same. For example, one said Madeleine came from Toulouse, which would explain his familiarity with Spain, while another told that the man migrated from Paris, same as most highly educated men. All evidence indicated that either Madeleine was inconsistent about his own history, or he somehow had not breathed a word about this to anyone in town over five years, and all the answers were mere speculation. But why would a man of glowing reputation do either? These were the typical behaviors of a man with something to hide. 

The more he thought, the more reasons he found to fuel his traitorous suspicion. At some point he had even hoped, for quite possibly the first time in his life, that he would get transferred and the problem would no longer be in his hands. He wanted nothing more than to leave knowing that he had protected the Maire to the best of his ability, as both his duty and also his irrational urges dictated. It would have been the natural end to it all. 

Now that Monsieur le Maire Madeleine asked him to stay… he could not serve the Maire in good faith while suspecting him to be that convict in disguise. Javert shook his head. He did not like to be thinking so much, especially when his superior was awaiting his response. 

"I feel almost as uncomfortable with Monsieur le Maire Madeleine as I did with the former _Chef de Salle_ Solitaire in the _Bagne_ ," he admitted, out loud. 

A moment of tense silence passed. "Tell me more," Chabouillet pressed. "What did he do to you?" 

"So far he had only been avoiding me, but he… resembles a convict I remember and he keeps to himself, so no one in town actually knows him well, despite their regard for him." 

"Oh!" Chabouillet exclaimed in profound relief and even smiled, just a little, at his own over-reaction. "So you suspect this Madeleine is a criminal under false identity?" 

"A parole-breaker," Javert corrected. He paused, distant and troubled blue-gray eyes briefly scanning across the smoke-stained walls of the _Commissaire’s_ office before locking back onto the Parisian coat-of-arms hanging prominently on the wall just above Chabouillet's head. "However, _Commissaire_ , it is possible my eyes or my memory is playing tricks on me," he added humbly, dark brows pulled low and drawn together. 

The _Commissaire_ hummedsoftly as he considered Javert's words. This suspicion against a man whose fame had reached the ears of the King seemed unfounded. But on the other hand, Javert’s instinct had proven remarkably sharp in the past. "I will look into this man's records and send information to you," he concluded. "This will likely take some time, so for the moment act with discretion." 

Javert nodded and said respectfully **,** "Yes certainly, _Commissaire_. _Merci_. This will be a great help to me." Before promptly retreating back to his usual reticence. 

"Ah, before I forget…" Chabouillet ducked his head to retrieve an item from one of his bottom desk drawers then placed onto the desk a thick leather-bound book. A letter could be seen tucked between the pages. "Two days ago that woman Jeanne De Val stopped by to leave you a book and a message again. I kindly informed her that I am a _Commissaire_ of the police, not of the _Poste_ , but she insisted that she knew you had transferred because you did not respond to her most recent letter. I agreed to pass this on to you without telling her you are now at Montreuil-sur-Mer," he said, then waved his hand casually in a way which suggested that no thanks was necessary. 

" _Merci_ , _Commissaire_ ," Javert said anyway as he tucked the volume under his arm. He had seen the title embossed on its spine - _The Battle of Waterloo: One afternoon in Two Thousand Pages_ \- and was privately disappointed. Not only was it not a crime novel, but the title sounded depressing. "I will once again ask her to stop, _Commissaire_." 

Chabouillet just smiled and, leaning back in his bergère, pointed at the book. "You like this kind of book? A bit of a military enthusiast?" 

"Non, _Commissaire_ ," Javert said. When Chabouillet raised an eyebrow urging him to elaborate he sighed softly. "She had given me better books before." 

"Eh?" Chabouillet intoned in genuine curiosity, pleased to finally see his always too stern protégé express a liking for something which was not work-related. "Better books?" he questioned. "Such as?" 

Javert frowned. Surely the _Commissaire_ had more important work to do than to inquire on something as inconsequential as which books he had received. "Crime novels, like _Romeo and Juliet_ ," he replied, completely straight-faced. This got a good laugh out of Chabouillet. 

"Yes, yes… that is a good one… you should tell jokes more often, it will endear you to your new colleagues, Javert," Chabouillet said. Observing only thorough confusion written across the tall, imposing man's features, he pressed his lips together in concern. Ages ago when he decided to help out this young man, he assumed all the emotional coldness and difficulty in conversation was an unfortunate consequence of the trauma in Toulon, soon to go away with a simple change of environment and some familiarity. Time had proven him mostly wrong in this case. 

"Do you speak to Madeleine this way also?" he asked with a sigh, "Just ' _Oui, Monsieur le Maire_ ' and ' _Non, Monsieur le Maire_ '?" When Javert nodded as expected, Chabouillet took a moment to contemplate the possibility that he had discovered the reason why the Maire had been avoiding Javert. "This is not good," he declared, "in spite of your discomfort you should attempt to endear yourself to the Maire, if anything it would provide opportunities for you to get information. It would help for you to show yourself as a man from France's proud navy tradition." 

"You remember wrong, _Commissaire_ Chabouillet, I never served in the navy." 

"The _Bagne_ was literally inside the navy base in Toulon, not just physically but even administratively. You are from the navy and you only need to cultivate within yourself a patriotic hatred of our enemy." 

"Criminals?" Javert asked almost reflexively. 

Chabouillet winced in disbelief and set his palm onto his desk heavily. "No, the English, Javert!" he exclaimed, gesturing again at the book about Waterloo tucked under Javert's arm. "I am sure that book details many of the reasons why." 

"I should endear myself to the Maire, _Commissaire_ , yes I understand -- but wouldn't solving difficult cases or protecting the Maire be better ways to accomplish this?" 

"In addition to those things, just tell some jokes like you did a few minutes ago. For example: Why is the end of _Romeo and Juliet_ so depressing? Because it was written by an Englishman!" 

Chabouillet received no laugh for his troubles. He consoled himself that Javert's confused expression was beneficial for the telling of jokes, then checked the time and sent Javert away to attend his dinner appointment. 

\- 

The dinner was a small, intimate affair at Thierry's home. Recently retired from his position - a bit sooner than he would have liked - due to chronic pain in his right shoulder from his old bullet wound, Thierry was unsettled in his new life and surrounded by a family which Javert had not known about. Javert felt as if he were intruding through the entire meal, and his decades-old habit of addressing Thierry as 'Captain' did not help matters. 

"I am not a Captain anymore, Javert. Call me Thierry like everyone else," Thierry said. Though the persistent military bearing of the former official belied the words, Javert agreed. 

To the daughter and a grandson present at the table, Javert described Montreuil-sur-Mer as a small fortified town, with low crime and a good economy, and this remained the topic of the affable conversation until all agreed that Montreuil-sur-Mer was a great town for the police to serve in. 

But the awkwardness was still present, and as soon as the plates were emptied Thierry invited Javert out to the tiny garden behind the house for some fresh air and a few cigars. Then, as always, Javert duly reported on his activities; he spoke of the _Maire_ and of his meeting with Chabouillet. When Thierry laughed out loud, he looked up in amazement. 

"Yes, Chabouillet always understood the politics better than me. Jokes can be learned the same way you learned your letters, Javert," Thierry said through a stream of white smoke. "We used to joke that English ships are all nailed out of firewood." Noticing that Javert was scribbling notes furiously into a notepad, Thierry laughed again and ask him to relax. "Do not read jokes from your notes when you try to tell them," he cautioned benevolently. 

Upon hearing Javert's reply of "I will memorize them," Thierry smiled softly and took in another breath from his cigar.It had long been clear to him that the boy could never change, no matter how much he had grown, but perhaps that was not a bad thing. 

As he neared the end of his cigar, almost as if intended to be a farewell, Thierry spoke up again. "Do well, the promotion to Commissaire will be far easier," he said. He need not explain why: in a Commissariat there were typically tens of Inspecteurs but only one or two _Officier de Paix_ under one _Commissaire_ \- it was simply a matter of numbers. "As a _Commissaire_ you will have guaranteed housing and stability. You will be able to provide for a wife and family on just one salary." 

"A wife? A family?" Javert repeated, horrified by the thought. He turned his head to gaze back into the house through the window, at the daughter and the grandson still inside the living room. Not only did he never understand what the others saw in their spouses, he had come to think of such an attachment as a weakness. "I did not know that I should want those things, Monsieur Thierry," he admitted. 

Thierry followed his gaze and then looked up at Javert's face thoughtfully. "Come back again when you are next in Paris, and I will introduce my wife to you. It is unfortunate that she must attend her parish meeting this evening," he said through the dissipating screen of smoke between them. "As for why you should want a family -- remember that every man has a duty to raise sons for his country." 

Thierry had always been a stern man of few words. He never responded to that desperate letter Javert sent him from the Bagne, almost begging to be hired again as a waterboy, in writing nor in person.But in a way, he had been responding to it for twenty years. He saw the pained expression on Javert's face out of the corner of his eyes, and silently hoped that Javert's odd reaction to the mention of marriage was not a consequence of the rape he suffered in Toulon. 

"One day you will grow old, like me, and you will not have your work anymore, only your family," he said, dropping the remnant of his cigar onto the ground and smothering it with his well-shined boot. "But for now, get some good rest on the trip back and do a good job in Montreuil-sur-Mer." 

\- 

During the hour he waited inside the _Poste_ station to board the coach, Javert found a small bench and, with a scowl, read through the letter from Jeanne under the warm orange-yellow glow of Parisian oil lamps. 

The letter was terse, beginning with the opening line: "Are you still alive?!" Javert carefully tore the topmost clean sheet of paper from his notepad and smoothed it onto the cover of the book, which provided a decent enough flat surface to compose a response on. " _Oui_ ," he wrote, "And I conclude that you must be also. One book titled _The Battle of Waterloo: One Afternoon in Two Thousand Pages_ received. One drawing from Pierre also received." 

The expected second question - "Is Jean still alive?" - required the usual response, even if it only ever fell on deaf ears. "I remind you again that municipal tax money is not paid so the police chief will work as private detective. No death report on Jean Valjean had been filed to my knowledge." The pen stopped but his mind went on; with a vague sense of the Maire in his consciousness, Javert wondered for the briefest of moments whether Jean Valjean had turned into something which was worse than dead. Far worse, worse than even a parole-breaker. 

He took a few breaths to calm himself before he signed it and dated it with full formalism, including his new address **,** and dropped it into the bucket of outgoing letters in the _Poste_ office. 

He had interacted with Jeanne enough to accept that if he did not give her his new address, she would only send mail through Chabouillet again - and Chabouillet will soon move into the _Palais de Justice_ , which was the last place he would want her to make a scene. 

\- 

Javert was able to claim a window seat on the coach due to being one of the first in line. As the lights of Paris faded into the horizon behind them and other occupants were gradually lulled to sleep by the gentled rocking, Javert fell into an uncomfortable slumber until the light of dawn. 

Then, when most of the others were still asleep, he reviewed the list on his note pad. It read: 

\- discarded shell fragments in mud pit  
 ~~\- thorough report of department for Maire~~  
\- coal for stove  
\- Accidental death in forest August 17 1819  
\- Endear self to Maire 

After crossing out the completed items, he thought about his conversation with Thierry and appended two more to the list: 

\- Tell jokes (equate British ships with fire wood)  
\- Find a wife? 

Then he opened his new book and began reading. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bergère: French padded armchair, with padded armrests. 
> 
> Church records and civil registration at Paris:  
> http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Registres_paroissiaux_et_d%27%C3%A9tat_civil_%C3%A0_Paris


	41. What is in the way is not your hat

Monsieur Madeleine, a patient man out of necessity, grew tired of waiting for dawn. 

Except for his occasional getaways to the forest with his rifle on his shoulder and a longing for other lands clinging to his soul, he rarely walked for the simple pleasure of stretching his muscles, often sore due to inactivity. Now he made his way towards the Mairie taking the longest detour he could come up with. 

Since his meeting with Javert, Madeleine had experienced a vaguely familiar, deep uneasiness. True to his habits, he took refuge in books and meditation to fight what he had come to identify as worry, probably due to sudden and repeated changes in his routine. 

So far, ensuring his survival was his priority and do the work of God was his reward. Yet all his efforts had led him to only one conclusion: what was once very satisfactory for a man in his circumstances was no longer enough. 

When he crossed the Rue Saint Wulphy, walking faster than usual, the sound of clear voices punctuated by some laughter reached his ears. In the frigid winter dawn, the women in town had begun to gather around the public laundry. Many were already busy dipping dirty clothes and arms equally into the icy water without apparent concern. 

Faces lifted to him with polite greetings and Madeleine, thinking that walls and a roof would keep the laundry sheltered from inclement weather, replied by tipping his hat and directing at them a strained smile, as his mind returned almost of its own volition to the issue which haunted him: in the days since Javert's departure he felt only impatience and not relief nor safety. It became clear to him that he no longer saw Javert as a harbinger of punishment, but as the promise of new emotions about to come. 

Thus, the man who had spent years building a perfect facade, for whom the idea of taking risks was unthinkable, simply refused to taste the bitterness of fear and to remember the ephemeral nature of his hopes. 

When his identity would be discovered - he was sure this time would come no matter what he did - he would simply accept the consequences and be content to disappear again, knowing that his life would be over in many ways. But for now, the present was stretched before him. 

During Javert's absence, he snuck out in the middle of the night to hide in a safe place enough money to secure his escape when necessary. Nobody heard him when he thanked God for allowing him to open his eyes and realize that hatred will only would continue leading him down the path of destruction. Only darkness knew that it was not lust which drove him - may God forgive his lack of control in already distant times-, but a need to hear a friendly voice and the yearning to live, to see his own reflection in caring eyes. 

This Saturday morning, cold and windy, there was no one close enough to him to see the sparkle in his eyes, or the thrill that curved the corners of his lips when he paid an urchin to deliver a letter and walked toward his office at the Mairie. However, Monsieur Madeleine had just acted ignoring his circumstances -as would a truly free man- perhaps for the first time in his life. 

\- 

At exactly five minutes to eleven, not one minute later nor one minute earlier, the tall frame of Inspector Javert entered the Mairie and stopped, facing the lobby counter. With a frown, he waited for the clerk to excuse himself from a discussion about the weather - will it snow when the wind abated? - to announce that he had a scheduled appointment with Monsieur le Maire. 

He carried with him a bag, which the few people waiting in the lobby curiously tried to peek at in order to guess its contents. Within hours, the gossipers would inform their fellow citizens that Inspector Javert had delivered a bag of coconuts to the Maire, but as usual, they would only be partially correct. 

Only Vasseur, the Inspector’s partner knew something about this. It was he who commented how it was a shame that the fine toys built by Monsieur Madeleine ended broken and discarded in the ditches, from which Javert had fished them out. He may have even commented, at one point, that they were carved like the walnut Javert carried. Yet even he could not know how, years ago, Javert kept the walnut to remember a grave mistake, one which he still believed his superiors were too lenient to forgive him for. That as the years passed and emotions became tempered by time, he had developed an odd fondness for the walnut, and now, decades later, felt almost personally insulted to see such shells littered unwanted about the streets. 

But Vasseur saw his partner pack into the bag a few of those shells which Javert had painstakingly glued back together with melted isinglass. He did not ask any questions, as he was busy eating his sausage sandwich. 

\- 

Through the thick door of the Maire's office Madeleine heard only muffled sounds, yet he could still recognize the rhythmic precision of the strides of Javert. It was one detail about the man which his mind refused to forget after so many years, and he found it almost impossible to suppress the urge to stand up for a proper greeting. 

But that was not what was expected of him, so when the door opened after a short knock, he made sure to give the appearance of a busy and slightly surprised man. 

Javert approached his desk and bowed his head. He responded with an equally formal greeting and polite invitation for the inspector to take a seat. Obviously, his offer was rejected. Would Javert ever relax in his presence? Surely not, Madeleine thought - that was not what was expected of him when he was facing a superior. The Maire cleared his throat. 

"The response to my request to the prefecture of Arras has arrived, Inspector. Or maybe I should call you Monsieur l'Officier de Paix. Congratulations. Your appointment will take effect at the start of the year." 

He reached into his drawer and pulled out the circular badge proving Javert's new position, to give it to him with what he hoped was a calm expression. For a moment, he succumbed to the temptation to stare at Javert, stupidly thrilled at the possibility to spy on Javert’s reactions. 

He had not expected gratitude for having written a letter proposing Javert for the position. He did not expect Javert to understand the uniqueness of the fact that he, the seclusive Madeleine, was willing to celebrate - in his modest way - Javert’s promotion. However, Javert's unemotional reaction disoriented him almost as much as the inspector's words. 

"Thank you, Monsieur le Maire. My sponsor Commissaire Chabouillet will be pleased." 

Madeleine shifted in his chair, somewhat disappointed and resigned that the conversation had ended, when Javert looked away from the open books on his desk and lifted the bag he brought with him. 

"Monsieur le Maire, if you have a moment," he inquired. Naturally, the Maire gestured for him to continue. "Shell fragments like these have been discarded in a mud ditch on the Southwest side of Rue Pierre Ledent." 

"Ah!" Madeleine exclaimed, unable to make the connection between the purpose of their meeting and the remains of the toys he recognized as his work. 

"Monsieur le Maire," Javert continued when it became clear that the Maire would add nothing more, "the boys were racing them when they broke." 

He shrugged, really intrigued by the importance Javert attached to the toys. "Things end up breaking, Inspector. And it is natural for children to break their toys," he said encouragingly, hoping for a clarification. 

There was disappointment in the way Javert deposited his hat on a chair and stepped up to the desk to hold out one of the shells up to his face. A moment later one of Javert's long fingers pointed to a specific spot on it. 

"The shells are broken because the boys bore holes into them to tie pieces of string. In my opinion if Monsieur le Maire drilled them in anticipation of this, they would last much longer." 

Madeleine gazed absently to the large hand and looked towards the wrist exposed between Javert's glove and coat sleeve. It seemed thinner than what he would consider healthy. He felt the sudden concern twisting his stomach and, unable to concentrate, he took the shell off the hand and pretended to examine it. 

To be honest, he had never bothered to find out the fate of his toys; he assumed only that children would have fun with them and thus, they would fulfill their purpose. He was obviously wrong: although his intentions were kind, he had unwittingly turned his chief inspector into a part-time trash collector. In his own way, without complaint, Javert was showing him the way to proceed so that everyone would be satisfied - the children, the toymaker, and perhaps also the inspector who for some reason cared about the toys. 

This simple lesson on the importance of follow-through, made him wonder if perhaps Javert possessed naturally the kind of wisdom he was only able to learn from books. 

"Thank you, Inspector," the Maire said, genuinely grateful. "Your advice will be heeded." 

However, Javert was quick to object. " _Non_ , Monsieur le Maire, it is not an advice, merely a suggestion which would reduce litter on the streets," he said plainly. Madeleine chuckled. 

"Of course, Inspector," the Maire agreed. He accepted the entire bag and then, as it was clear that now the meeting was really over, tried to come up with some excuse to invite Javert back again. He would not have anything else to hand deliver to Javert, like the new badge, and clearly this sort of excuse would not get Javert to stay for more than a few minutes. Would Javert be happy to carve toys with him? That would certainly be declined. The only thing Madeleine was certain Javert would agree to would be an invitation to do work. 

"I could not help but notice that you've done a great job applying municipal regulations during your tenure as acting-Commissaire," he ventured to comment. Javert nodded respectfully and he took this as an encouragement to continue. "I have to admit I have difficulty knowing which municipal regulations have been antiquated and which have not. I would greatly appreciate your expertise to clarify some issues." 

The words had already left his lips when Madeleine chided himself for his clumsiness: under no circumstances did he wish to force Javert’s presence by an indirect order. "Naturally, as a favor, not as a duty," he clarified. "Does next Saturday at the same time work for you?" 

Javert looked confused for a moment and then said consent with a simple: " _Oui_ , Monsieur le Maire. I will be present at eleven in the morning next Saturday," and made his exit. 

Madeleine relaxed in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, the smile on his face one of satisfaction but also some guilt. He was pleased to have found the way to approach Javert, on pretexts which were not completely false. Besides, he had a bag of toys which he would keep with the same care with which they had been repaired. 

\--- 

Over the next week, the wind dropped and the streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer were covered with snow. Time passed slowly around the sleepy town where the festive mood was beginning to be felt. 

Although during their meeting on Saturday, Monsieur le Maire managed to get the Inspector to take a seat - reluctantly - while talking about regulations relating to the use of wells in the town, the atmosphere between them remained serious and professional. This was not satisfactory to Madeleine, so, in a fit of optimism, he talked about the annual luncheon he organized for the employees of his factory on Christmas Eve, and did the unthinkable: he invited Javert to join the celebration as a friend. As expected, the proposal was rejected because the Inspector - like all the bachelors in the Police force - had taken on more patrols than usual. 

Obviously the fact that he was on duty did not prevent the Inspector from walking by the factory while on patrol. When he walked up to glance in through one of the windows he saw Madeleine and a room full of guests - quite a few criminals on parole - drinking wine, with children running about and people laughing and screaming. All without a single security guard or even someone watching at the door. 

Every time, Inspector Javert left to continue his patrol feeling distressed, until in subsequent stops he saw the number of guests being to dwindle. The last time he looked, he saw Madeleine still in his seat, with a large gift resting untouched on his lap and a look in his eyes as vacant as the deserted room. Displeased that the Maire had to waste his valuable time watching over the few people moving about clearing the tables, yet relieved that the situation finally seemed under control, Javert did not walk by again. 

\--- 

During the last days of 1820, a philanthropic fever swept through the commune. Prominent families of ancient lineage and new rich alike, organized charity events in which there was one constant: the Maire of Montreuil sur Mer was invited as guest of honor. 

Madeleine made a superhuman effort to go to each and every one of those meetings. He knew enough about the workings of the world to know that most such events were organized to bring good publicity and also to win influence with the Maire. But he also knew that the resulting donations helped those most in need. 

His manners were self-taught from the pages of etiquette books and practiced in the privacy of his room; his conversation was still sparse and unsophisticated. He feared that his lack of pretense betrayed the pruner he was still, but he considered it a reasonable price to pay in exchange for blankets, soups, and school books. 

Nonetheless, by December 29th, a Friday, he had been worn to a near-constant state of annoyance as he spent a few hours at the Mairie in between two trips. Just minutes after he sat down, his assistant came in to announce that the Chief Inspector wished for a meeting. 

He asked for the man to be sent in immediately. When he heard the familiar footsteps coming down the hall, he straightened up in his chair and looked up at the oak door of his office with anticipation. Javert entered hat in hand and a bit more somber than usual, with the bowed head and his eyes low, fixed on some distant point on the ground beyond the wall. Relying on their newfound familiarity, Madeleine pointed at the empty chair as a gesture for the Inspector to take a seat. 

" _Non_ , Monsieur le Maire," Javert replied. The Inspector then somehow straightened himself, shifting his shoulders back just a bit more, and only then did Madeleine understand that Javert's usual posture actually had room for improvement. 

The Maire's mind raced searching for reasons to explain what he was witnessing. Perhaps the authorities found another problem with his civil registry? 

"Inspector? Has something happened?" he asked. 

" _Oui_ , Monsieur le Maire," Javert replied, his tone as somber as his demeanor. "As Chief Inspector it is my duty to alert you to the presence of any troublemakers who would disrespect your authority. I have come to report on one such person." 

"Ah…! Well …" Madeleine smiled and tried to sound casually dismissive: "I could name a few people who do, Inspector. It's not something I worry about too much." He could not understand why Javert was acting like a man he expected to find at one of the funerals he attended. 

"Monsieur le Maire, this man had acted on his disrespect and is at risk of undermining not only the authority of your office as Maire, but also the authority of his office -- as the town's Chief Inspector." Javert's voice died away and for the duration of a few breaths his lips were reduced to a thin, rough line. "I, Javert, thought you resembled a parole-breaker who served time at the Bagne at Toulon to a suspicious extent. Recently I acted on this suspicion and requested a copy of your civil and criminal records from my sponsor, Commissaire Chabouillet. Only after reading through them was I certain of my error." 

Madeleine, who at first was confused, thenhid his fear behind a half-feigned surprised expression. So he was right to think that Javert had recognized him, and now the moment he so feared had arrived. But he had not foreseen this unexpected outcome. 

Just like any man trying to sneak out a living in the shadow cast by the law, he had paid the best service he could afford for records to be forged under his new name Madeleine. He had done it without much thought; at some point it was a matter of necessity as his business grew and buildings had to be purchased for expansion. He did not expect it to survive the internal investigation, and he never dreamt that one of the men he was lying to would be Javert. 

"And you say I look like the convict?" he asked, only because he was expected to. 

Javert raised his eyes at last. Madeleine saw that for a moment, they were unfocused; that Javert was looking at him, Monsieur Madeleine, but remembering a different man, Jean Valjean. The real man he will never again show to anyone. And he saw in those eyes far more emotion than he ever imagined: there was resentment which seemed almost out of character for such a cold man, but also a sparkle of something human and vulnerable. 

The certainty of his suffering gripped the throat of Madeleine. He focused on his surprise at the expressiveness of Javert's face in a desperate attempt to prevent his mind from tumbling down the far more enticing path to question why the resentment and why the gloom. 

" _Oui_ , Monsieur le Maire," Javert replied after another moment. "But this does not justify the crime. If you see it fit for me to be dismissed, and a different man to be named to the new post of Officier de Paix in three days, please make a public statement of what had happened. Otherwise most will simply assume that you took the opportunity to appoint someone easier to work with." He stepped up to the desk, but only to place his circular badge onto it before retreating back to exactly where he stood before, two paces away. 

Suddenly, Madeleine felt disgusted by this show - because why else would someone request to be dismissed like this, if not to leave an impression on the gullible new Maire, just like everyone else in town? Certainly Javert expected to be forgiven for his actions. But, which one of them - the one sitting or the one standing - was truly the one who needed to be forgiven? 

“Why would that be important, Monsieur l'Inspecteur?" he asked. 

Javert nodded,as if to acknowledge that a good question was asked. "Monsieur le Maire, the people of Montreuil-sur-Mer just spent over a year without a Maire and I fear they have grown used to it. Setting an example that disrespect of your authority will not be tolerated will help keep others on good behavior." The inspector's explanation was supremely assured, despite the persistent aura of gloom. 

Something about this response - the attitude, the voice, the words which were said - made Madeleine doubt his initial, instinctive reaction. Standing before him was not the young guard who was bullied by colleagues, and who had abandoned him years ago. This was chief inspector Javert, powerful man in town **,** whose only requests so far had been one new draft horse and four new desk lamps for the police department. 

Madeleine ran a hand through his beard, trying to think fast. In a town where a young man could not be seen smiling at a demoiselle without spawning rumors of infidelity or an imminent engagement, Javert must have handled his suspicion with extreme discretion because absolutely nothing about this reached his ears. And there was no lack of opportunity - he had dealt with more than a few complaints about the chief inspector just in the past month. There was no need for Javert to confess this and request to be publically shamed, in a way which would irreparably destroy his career. Was all this out of misplaced loyalty to an impostor Maire, or could there be something else? 

Something the other convicts used to tell - "Guards are all rotten, but as far as guards go, that Javert is an honest one." - sounded in his head. Perhaps this was a show of honesty; perhaps in a few years the people who came complaining about the inspector would make a similar grudging compliment. But Madeleine still prefered, desperately, for it to be something else. Raw emotions rushed up to his head as his pulse pounded in his ears. Yet externally, only a tremor shook his hands and he laced his fingers to hide it. 

After twenty one years Javert still remembered the convict Jean Le Cric's face vividly. This, and the inspector admitted to feeling distressed when the hollow shell named Madeleine was dirty or exposed to danger. He cared, unknowingly, for the same man in both the past and the present, but would never know about Jean Valjean, the damaged man who felt all the emotions, and who sat but three paces from him, hidden inside the guise of Madeleine. 

Jean Valjean knew this was the most confirmation he would ever have that his affection was not completely unrequited. 

Madeleine rose out of chair and, feeling very self-conscious about the limp he could not fully disguise, approached the inspector and placed himself into the path of the taller man's downcast gray eyes, focused on some spot on the ground. 

"I guess the misunderstanding has been cleared up and that's what matters. I would not trust a man who would not question me, only because I hold the office of Maire," he said. Without daring to offer a reconciliatory handshake, he hesitated for a fraction of the second which nonetheless felt as long as entire minutes. He watched as a small ball of wool fuzz stuck to the cape on Javert's coat, caught by his exhaled breath, fluttered just like his heart. 

He lifted his hand just past the level of his eyes and placed it onto the shoulder in what - in the spur of the moment - was intended as a casual pat. The feeling of warmth radiating off the wool covering the firm shoulder, awakened in him dangerous needs: to lose himself in an embrace and, if that could not be, he wished for a return gesture, a simple touch. For a moment, he was sure his eyes would betray him, but he could not bring himself to be concerned about it. He could not tell if he was dreaming, in broad daylight, in the Maire's office. 

But when Javert reacted, it was only to take both of his arms, along with the hat in his hand, behind his back. Maybe he thought only to move the hat his was cradling between them out of the way? Madeleine could not tell, but then he heard the man swallow. 

" _Oui_ , Monsieur le Maire, there is no more misunderstanding," Javert's voice descended from somewhere above his head. 

Realizing belatedly that not only did his pat linger on the shoulder, but he had hesitated far too long for it to appear spontaneous, he commented awkwardly, "You are surprisingly tall, inspector." 

He felt the muscles shift under his hand. "It is a requirement, Monsieur le Maire, for police officers to be tall, in fact quite tall, preferably above one hundred eighty or so centimeters…" Javert began, in an unexpectedly rambling response. Madeleine understood what the inspector meant after the first half sentence yet the response continued, but he did not listen to the words anymore. He saw that the man was flustered and was affected by his touch. Once again, as was becoming too usual in the presence of this man, Madeleine felt a pervasive sadness. But, just like his fear, he did not care for it anymore. 

He gave the shoulder a gentle squeeze. When the voice stopped somewhat abruptly, he removed his hand and donned his mask of benevolent smile before returning to his seat. Then he asked the inspector to stop by as agreed on Saturday before sending him away. 

After twenty four years of darkness, the _Bagne_ ’s doors opened for Jean Valjean, and beyond the shadows, where the open field started, Javert was waiting for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> public laundry: http://media.communes.com/images/orig/postcard/maxi/30202/70eb50e9ee59154403c5d492f80f066b  
> commune: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commune_%28France%29


	42. The path to jealousy

Having stepped right over his incapacitating to act for self-preservation, Madeleine continued inviting Javert to meet him at the Mairie every saturday, until his chief inspector understood it to be a weekly appointment. Then he rescheduled his Saturday patrols permanently. 

In the aftermath of a mistake of such magnitude and the consequent confession, one would expect these meetings to be anything but comfortable for the inspector. This is not so. 

When the Maire forgave him, he did not agree but he obeyed. When the Maire invited him to stop by the next day - a Saturday - at their usual meeting time once more, he did not put up any protest. He had not understood the intention of the meetings previously, but after this he simply accepted them as the Maire's efforts to increase surveillance on a troublesome employee. 

The man who watched others for a living did not mind being watched. For Javert was a man of integrity -- a character trait he taught himself in order to be exactly all the things his parents were not. And what was integrity, if not to always do what was right, regardless of whether he was being watched? It was all the same to him. 

In fact, he appreciated how the Maire tested his knowledge of the law. Perhaps the Maire would notice a gap in his knowledge and point this out to him. He also appreciated how, one time, the Maire tested his character by attempting to bribe him with a meal. He hoped that by pointing out how obvious the ploy was and declining emphatically, he was able to restore the Maire's confidence in him. 

As for the way the Maire walked up to him and rested a hand onto his coat, whatever that was a test of, thankfully the Maire did not do it again. This was the one test that he feared he might fail. 

\--- 

Many such meetings passed. Madeleine gained confidence in his working knowledge of the municipal regulations while, outside the Mairie's windows, the translucent, ice-slickened roads thawed as the days gradually lengthen once again. Once the danger of overnight freezes had passed, the Maire moved forward with his plans for the new roof above the public laundry. 

Not just activity inside the town reawakened, but also travel into and out of Montreuil-sur-Mer. The Maire's typical melancholy was uplifted by the sight of more new faces in his town. Whether they be foreign businessmen who had been led to the blossoming town by word of mouth, or the downtrodden of neighboring lands searching for a new place to call home, Madeleine was happy for them all. 

Well, perhaps not quite every single one, as one of the businessmen who had arrived was the infamous Señor Pérez, business associate and crucial supplier to Madeleine himself. 

It was almost five o'clock one day in March when Monsieur le Maire turned his head to gaze distractedly through the tall window behind him. The icy wind had stopped to punish the town a few days ago and with the still bright sunlight, he could see the branches of trees swaying in the sea breeze which swept inland. 

Standing in the middle of the Maire's office was Señor Pérez, who was speaking effusively about the bottle of wine in his hand. Neither the sheer inappropriateness of the entire ordeal, nor the small detail that their scheduled appointment was not due to begin for another two hours, restrained the impulsive, effervescent man. Even the extraordinary patience of Madeleine's had a limit, and after letting out a sigh to demonstrate his irritation - a gesture either not understood or completely ignored - Madeleine proposed that they speak at his factory. 

He hoped the walk would temper the spirits of Pérez, or, failing that, they could begin their meeting early and conclude it early. 

His first hope was quickly dashed as they walked down Rue Pierre Ledent. Madeleine tried his best to ignore his companion's too loud speaking voice and propensity for casual touches - an occasional grab of his elbow, or a pat on his arm to demand his attention - surely a custom of Pérez's region? Nevertheless, the odd pair attracted the curious glances of others on the street. 

The Maire did not know whether to be relieved or mortified when he spied the solemn, upright figure of Javert approaching, walking in the opposite direction. When the policeman stopped and bowed his head in greeting, Madeleine succumbed to the temptation to exchange a few words with him. 

“Did anything unusual happen today, chief inspector?" 

“There had been only four instances of unsafe driving, one case of domestic dispute on Rue du Tripot, one complaint about a chimney in poor condition on Ruelle d'Orléans, and some petty theft at the markets,” Javert replied with his usual decorum. So professional was this answer that, for a moment, Madeleine felt an urge to ask his usual follow-up questions and simply have a meeting right where they stood, in the middle of the street. Alas, even Javert could not make him forget the presence of Señor Pérez, and Madeleine held his tongue. 

" _Merci_ , chief inspector," he said, and glanced at his companion with the intention to keep walking. He found Pérez looking towards the policeman with undisguised curiosity, while Javert studied the man's fashionable velvet jacket in admiration. 

"This is Monsieur Pérez, my business associate," Madeleine introduced quickly, "... and Monsieur Pérez, this is our Chief of Police, Monsieur Javert." Immediately, the small man's hand shot out to grab Javert's arm. It was dodged by the towering man with surprising agility. 

"Ohh, you must be Monsieur Madeleine's romani friend! I am Pérez, Monsieur Madeleine's Spanish friend." Pérez laughed and dropped his hand when Javert's curt nod made clear that there will be no handshake. Undeterred, he commented, "You certainly worked hard today -- come with us for a drink?" 

“He is on duty," the Maire interjected, but not without awareness that if this were a valid excuse, he would not be stuck walking Pérez to his factory in the first place. 

" _Non_ , I am not Monsieur Madeleine's friend. I am Monsieur le Maire Madeleine's chief inspector," Javert corrected him with a frown. "As I reported, Monsieur Pérez, there is some crime in Montreuil-sur-Mer, even though it is a very safe town. I had just finished my patrol and If the Maire doesn't have something else for me to do, I would like to serve as escort." 

“But, Monsieur Javert! Monsieur Madeleine is a very understanding man, and you do not need an excuse to come to drink!" Pérez declared with a wide grin, and kept speaking despite the rapidly deepening frown on Javert's face. "We are going to the factory! Escort us, dear chief inspector!!" 

For whatever reason, Javert did not argue. Perhaps his chief inspector also realized the futility of correcting Señor Pérez's crazy assumptions? Madeleine tightened his lips to hide a smile. He could not guess the intentions of Javert, but he was reasonably sure it was not his fondness for drink or conversation which led him to share their company. 

Fifteen minutes later, when Javert attempted to excuse himself at the entrance to the factory, he was asked to reconsider not only by Señor Pérez but also the Maire. And, of course, he did what the Maire asked him to. 

So the three of them found themselves huddled around the fireplace in his factory office, Pérez gobbling his third glass of wine while Javert and Madeleine took occasional sips from their still full glasses. To Madeleine’s amazement, Pérez was able to engage Javert in a substantive discussion about the proper maintenance of knives by showing the Toledo knife he carried as a self-defense weapon. 

The discussion was enough to make Madeleine feel left out, yet it was still brief. It was as if Javert saw fit to comment on the state of maintenance of the knife, and to share his views on the proper procedures with its owner. However, as nothing Pérez could say had any chance of changing Javert's well-informed opinions, the conversation ended abruptly. 

"The chief inspector does not like to converse!" Pérez declared, setting down his emptied glass and wiping his lips with his handkerchief. He most certainly was not the kind of man to become mellowed by drink. He stood up and - his enthusiasm not at all diminished even though he had been the only one speaking for the past five minutes - proclaimed his sudden realization: "I understand now -- Monsieur Javert must be a man of action!" 

"Yes!" Javert exclaimed, seemingly surprised that the man had uttered such a sensible statement. Madeleine's heart skipped a beat - by 'action' Pérez could only mean a few things, none of them good - yet while he desperately tried to come up with an excuse to decline the invitation on Javert's behalf, the conversation continued -- 

"Please, Monsieur Javert, accompany me for some action at a _Maison Close_ (brothel)! What is your opinion of Aux Belles Poules, the establishment on Rue Carnot?" Pérez asked, while giving himself a few sprays of pungent Eau de Cologne. The scent of bergamot filled the office. 

Madeleine felt his face burn in embarrassment, and he stole a sideways glance at his chief inspector fearing he'd find that familiar look of acceptance on the man's expressive face. What if Javert took this to mean that he was Pérez's usual companion for such activities? There would be no way to explain himself. 

Unfortunately, his furtive glance turned into a disbelieving stare because what was happening was far worse. Javert had risen from his seat and was nodding in agreement. " _Oui_ , Monsieur Pérez, Aux Belles Poules is the most popular _Maison Close_ in town, but I would prefer to stop by Madame Lebeau’s. I heard they hired several new prostitutes whom I had not yet inspected." 

Madeleine's mind went blank, and then, he clenched his jaw against the bitter emotions he was feeling. 

"Ah, yes! Of course for the chief inspector it is referred to as an 'inspection'!" Pérez directed a cheeky wink at the Maire, but the Maire's attention was elsewhere. "Come with us, my friend?" 

"No, no," Madeleine replied with a forced smile and a wave of his hand, "I have some work to do." 

Pérez shrugged. "Ah, my friend, then I will see you again at our meeting!" He held the door open and waved for Javert to exit first. When the chief inspector bowed his head in farewell, the Maire caught a lingering glance being directed at his lame right foot. 

\- 

Madeleine was left with a cold chasm growing in the pit of his stomach and threatening to swallow him whole. He went to his window in a stunned stupor and watched the two men walk away: Javert nimble despite his stature, with Pérez exerting himself to keep up, the small man's exaggerated gestures and flood of words only answered by an occasional nod. 

It was too easy to imagine them entering the _Maison Close_ , and the ways in which the women there would surrender themselves before Pérez's deep pockets. Javert, strict and phlegmatic, would seem so out of place there… but this would not stop him from taking off his jacket--he would not allow the uniform he wore so proudly to be defiled--and unbuttoning his trousers. 

Then Madeleine wondered what kind of lover the taciturn Inspector would be: perhaps he was thoughtful and considerate but Madeleine doubted it, especially when it could not be more than physical need burning in his veins. Raw and undisguised, as expected in a bachelor his age. 

Still, Madeleine visualized Javert willing to be touched by skillful, experienced hands as he thrusted, even if his mind focused only on his own pleasure. And it hurt less than to wonder whether his dark-skinned body would shudder and become flushed with a rosy glow at the moment of relief, or to hear that voice call out a name which certainly would not be his own. It would never be his own. 

His eyes began to sting, not just due to the weariness which weighed on him, but also because he used to tell himself he felt more than only lust. It was sinful - sacrilegious - to wish to push Javert out of the poor wretch's arms and take her place without feeling remorse. Even more so because he was never given any reason to believe that the inspector shared his depraved tastes. 

In an effort to regain his sanity, he joined his hands and tried to pray -- it was far easier than to think of ways to forgive himself. But after the first sentence of Our Father left his lips, he gave up, ashamed. If he was honest, the only thing he could plead was for God to restrain the man he desired from sharing the bed of a prostitute. Madeleine ran a trembling hand through his hair and settled down in wait for the return of Pérez, hoping the chatty man would not subject him to a risqué account of everything that happened. 

\- 

Madame Lebeau’s was out in the lower town along the docks, away from the residential center, as required by law. On the outside it can only be distinguished by red lantern on the door’s hinge and by its sealed windows. 

The chief inspector gave the door two strong knocked then announced his own name - his deep voice more than sufficient to carry through the door - before he let himself into the lavishly decorated room. The women on display groaned. "Again, chief inspector?" one of the older women muttered. 

However, Señor Pérez, who had to take a step to the side to make himself visible from behind Javert, received a decidedly different welcome. Several of the women walked up to the man and lead him across the extravagant carpets to one of the garish lounge chairs with bright red upholstery. Pérez, clearly very much in his element, made no attempt to disguise his lustful glances at the cleavages and buttocks all around him. 

“Please, Monsieur Javert, your preference?" the small man asked while stroking his mustache with one hand and stroking the prostitute in his lap with his other. "You may choose any, even this one, Chantal!" Chantal turned to give Señor Pérez a look of utter disbelief and shook her head vigorously while mouthing the word ' _Non_ '. 

"My preference, Monsieur Pérez? Why, all of them, of course!" Javert replied in his effortlessly powerful voice, made to sound almost jarring in this place where everyone spoke a bit softer out of discretion, even Pérez. 

“What!” Surely this was a bluff, and Pérez wanted to see how far this fascinating Monsieur Javert would take it. "Yes, you may!" he agreed magnanimously. 

Another round of muttering spread through the prostitutes, more harshly than before. A hairy and indignant big woman said something which vaguely resembled a curse, while a young, impressionable one, exhaled: "Oh no..." Pérez could not help but be both amused and impressed. It seemed that this Monsieur Javert was even more of a regular than he! 

" _Merci_ , Monsieur Pérez. It is of paramount importance to be thorough," replied a hat-less and glove-less Javert. The chief inspector seemed to already be undressing, setting his items carefully onto a nearby, small coffee table. Pérez watched in wonder as Javert turned to face the open area in the middle of the lobby and gestured with a broad sweep of his hand. "Everyone form a line, in front of me!" he commanded. 

"You are… you are doing it HERE?" Pérez jabbed his finger at the ground, wide eyes darting from face to face for some support. "But you will ruin the carpet!" 

To which Javert nodded and calmly replied: "I am quick and they will not leave a mess of saliva." 

"You _must_ use a bed, Monsieur Javert!" 

"A bed? Why when it could be done without one?" 

"No, Monsieur Javert, I will pay for your room!" 

"There is no need to pay, Monsieur Pérez," Javert declared, displaying his badge of Officier de Paix. "They will submit to my will. It is required by law." Each short sentence carried enough weight to land with a thud. 

Pérez tugged on his mustache with his fingers, staring slack-jawed as an orderly, single-file line formed and stretched halfway across the room. It was certainly a nice parade of petticoats and cleavages deployed before the eyes of the Frenchman, who was a good head taller than all women gathered in the room. He could easily stare at the bosom of each one of them, and this made Pérez envious. "You son of a bitch!" he gasped as he shook his head in disbelieving admiration. 

"Step up and open your mouth!" Javert said to the first in line. "Wider! Yes… now look up at me!' The chief inspector bent down and, with a firm hand on her jaw, tilted her head up towards the light. Pérez leaned out of his seat to watch as Javert inserted his fingers and felt around, causing the pretty girl to squirm. He felt around both sides, top and bottom. And then, after a few seconds, he withdrew his finger and nodded in satisfaction. 

The prostitute visibly heaved a sigh of relief: Chief Inspector Javert had found her third molars (read: wisdom teeth.) 

"Señor Pérez, are you really paying me for this?" she looked to the small man and asked timidly. 

"Yes, when the chief inspector is finished with you and if you gave him pleasure," responded a horribly confused Pérez. 

" _Oui_ , Monsieur Pérez, this prostitute gave me pleasure by proving herself of legal age," Javert replied, wiping his finger on a towel brought over by the owner. Then he gestured to the next girl in line. "Next! Step up and open your mouth!" 

Pérez nearly fainted. 

On this night, the prostitutes who gave Javert pleasure earned a night's worth of pay in a few seconds, while those who did not, got fired and even got their former employer fined. 

"You have seen all my girls, chief inspector. Now please leave and enjoy your evening elsewhere." The owner, a large graying woman dressed as if she were still twenty, pointed at the small door in the corner which allowed customers to exit into a well-hidden dark alley. 

Javert nodded. "Do not hesitate to contact the police if drunken customers cause trouble," he said as he donned his hat and gloves. "Monsieur Pérez, you are patronizing a legal business. Enjoy your stay, and thank you for your invitation." With a bow to the dumbfounded Spanish man, he strolled out the same way he came, through the front door to the busy docks. 

Behind him, the prostitutes grumbled to Pérez: "Amongst ourselves we would joke that the chief inspector worked our full house in under fifteen minutes… would you like to try and beat that record? … Oh, Señor Pérez! How did you even get to be friends with the gypsy inspector? … But if you want to pay again the next time he comes, maybe we can try to give him other kinds of pleasure for a bonus?" 

After a round of hearty laughter they went about their business. 

\- 

Confronted by the sight of the still icy Canche, the chief inspector walked to the river's edge and gazed into it for a moment, his blue-gray eyes tracking some small fishes swimming far below the surface. 

He wondered whether the Maire had recovered from whatever made him turn pale when they left for the _Maison Close_. Perhaps on a different day he would go now to report on the investigation in person, but this evening the Maire was occupied by the work which kept him in the office and then that meeting with Pérez. It will have to wait until tomorrow. 

Javert frowned. He found what Pérez did to be distasteful - rich merchant giving his money away to prostitutes - but that was still marginally better than Madeleine, who threw his money at the drunks and the homeless. The prostitutes worked in the worse profession but at least they worked. If there was one thing he disliked about the Maire it was this, but perhaps the man had his reasons for doing so. 

However, that was not even the worrying thing: what were those two thinking making a scene just strolling down Rue Pierre Ledent? Didn't they know that together, they are easily worth half of the entire town? Maybe the next time the Maire will know to find him for an escort, even if it was to go to a brothel to use and possibly stare at prostitutes. It would be less distressing than not to be asked. 

Javert turned to face the breeze. Thinking that the English Channel was only a thirty minute ride down the river, and that there must be a joke in this somewhere to tell to the Maire, Javert headed back to the station. 

\- 

Not far away from there, Madeleine adjusted his cravat before opening his office door to Señor Pérez, who wore the placid smile of a satiated man. To the Maire’s dismay, the Spanish businessman's loquaciousness was unaffected. He was immediately bombarded with praise for the skills of one Margot, whom the man euphemistically referred to as "his conquest of the night". 

Madeleine, feeling the burn of embarrassment creep up his own face, tried unrelentingly to direct the conversation to the rosary beads on his desk. Instead, the conversation turned to what the chatterbox called a spectacle worthy of every single franc he had paid: Monsieur Javert's absurd oral fetish. 

As the story progressed and it became clear the truth was not at all what he imagined, Madeleine felt a wave of relief spread through his body. But when Pérez described the dedication with which the Chief Inspector examined the women's mouths and declared two of the girls to be underage, he finally understood the magnitude of his error. 

Nearly half a life after first falling for this man, he still managed to be so insultingly wrong -- what an empty and bleak life he lived! He, who was himself a man of pure affections, whose modesty was not feigned, was no better than Pérez in this regard. Madeleine felt his knees tremble under his weight and dropped into the chair beside his desk. 

Ignoring Pérez, who had finally paused for breath, Madeleine collected his thoughts by trying to think of a way for the two girls to learn a trade and integrate into normal life, far away from the brothel. It was too difficult to focus, when even holding a rosary in his hand his mind was full of Javert. 

Every instinct guided him towards the impossible, since he can’t apologize for what he was thinking earlier. How could he hold the clear gaze of Javert after all those dirty images crossed his mind? And how would he continue with his life now that he was sure his affection needed a physical completion? 


	43. Joy

The second Saturday of each month was the busiest day at the market square of Montreuil-sur-Mer, especially when the seasons changed. Bargain-hunting crowds purchased fabrics by the pound from the traveling merchants, eager to keep their closets stocked for the season. Tempers flared and visitors became confused. Officier de Paix Javert saw these events as prime opportunities to impress upon the people the rule of law and to make arrests. 

In the mornings, he could be seen patrolling about the narrow walkways between the stalls with ease, tall top hat conspicuously floating above the crowd, perfectly ignorable yet always visible. While his trained eyes scanned for suspect behavior, that forgotten part of himself browsed the stalls for that passionate, lingering look he never found again. 

Behind him, his stocky partner Vasseur efficiently examined the balances for manipulated dishes or loaded weights, while grappling with the eternal question: when would be the best time to take a bite from the sausage sandwiches in his pocket? The lunch hour was near and he was not the only one to think of food. A plump woman waddled across their path carrying on her shoulder a tree branch from which three freshly slaughter chickens dangled upside-down. 

“ _Bonjour_ , Madame Givry,” Javert greeted, touching the brim of his hat. “Looks like you are about to have a feast tonight.” 

The old woman shot him an outraged look before answering: “My son the bricklayer just received a big commission -- I did not steal these. And anyone with eyes can see that these old chickens are only good for confit*. Anyone but an ignorant Parisian." The woman raised her wrinkled chin up at him in indignation. 

Satisfied, he simply said: "Good." And went on, heading toward the stall where an increasingly agitated crowd elbowed and shoved for the last of the English wools. His mere presence had a calming effect among the customers, as his reputation had been firmly established. Instantly subdued, they formed neat, obedient rows in near silence. Those who found themselves hopelessly far in the line dispersed dejectedly. Again satisfied, the chief inspector waited for his partner Vasseur. 

"Soon it will be time for your meeting with the Maire!" The policeman whom colleagues have taken to calling Le Saucisson (the sausage) commented in good cheer. "I always wondered what you did with the Maire every Saturday.” 

Javert turned to face him and responded seriously: "That is a good question. Recently the Maire had asked me not only to share food and drink, but also to bring along things to read. I do not understand what any of this has to do with work." 

Vasseur's chubby hands mindlessly settled on his somewhat diminished waistline. "Does the good Maire appreciate a sandwich stuffed with savory, aromatic, Lorrainer sausage?" he asked. Javert's scowl made clear that he did not manage to ask two good questions in a row. He shrugged. 

Over the months of long patrols, Vasseur had come to appreciate his imposing chief's strict morality as the flip side of the man's legendary reliability. And he had learned how to live with it. "Well, the Maire must be trying to befriend you, since everyone knows Monsieur le Maire is a man who always kept to himself," Vasseur said, and then added under his breath, "How odd." 

Javert seemed even more gloomy than before when he checked his watch in troubled silence. 

\--- 

Though Vasseur was perfectly justified in thinking that Javert's gloominess was simply the man being himself, in fact this time he had wronged Javert. The police chief wrestled with troubling thoughts all the way back to the station - to retrieve his 'leisure reading' - and then all the way to the Mairie. It was solely out of discretion that he did not tell any of it to Vasseur. 

He never told Vasseur that he always believed that the Maire was monitoring him, because then even Vasseur would know to ask, "What for?" - or at least he hoped. Then he would be forced to refuse to answer or to lie. And of course, he dared not mention anything about the truly troubling aspect of it all: despite knowing it to be trickery from his own mind, every time he looked at the Maire, he still saw the convict 24601. 

"Monsieur le Maire," he said, after the portress let him into the office. Madeleine already had a robust fire going and was settled comfortably into one of the armchairs. 

"Monsieur l'Officier de Paix, please," Madeleine greeted him with a smile. Javert noticed that the Maire was pointing at the blue paisley patterned armchair which he preferred, and which had been perhaps thoughtfully moved closer to the fire. Javert took the seat as usual, and then, the Maire also continued reading as usual - today it was a copy of the weekly newspaper. 

It was mutually understood that the Maire expected him to simply start working on whatever he brought with him. But his mind was too cluttered at the moment. He turned his head and looked at the graying man for a long moment. If the Maire noticed, the man did not show it. 

"Excuse my question, Monsieur le Maire, but I must know," he spoke up suddenly, "are these meetings an attempt to befriend me?" 

Seeming somewhat surprised, the Maire smiled warmly and confirmed: "Yes." 

Javert could not understand it. If the Maire wanted a new friend, certainly it would be far more appropriate for him to choose from the town's bourgeois, for someone of equally elevated social standing. He studied the expression on the Maire's face. Perhaps the Maire found out that he was of disgraceful birth - born inside a prison to criminal parents - and approached him for the same reasons as the man approached the homeless and the poor. He had no want for pity. And yet as he had no friends, he did not trust his ability to identify a genuine offer of friendship as any different from pity. 

He turned in his seat as far as the armrest would allow, so he could face the Maire properly. The fire crackled, maybe because a log had fallen, and a tiny spark between them. 

He looked at the Maire's well-kept short beard in the light of the fire, and tried not to see a dirty, overgrown beard, nor remember how his own gloved hand held a lamp up to it. Yet all his effort achieved was to make him feel a slight tingle in the tips of his fingers, reminiscent of the scratchy roughness when he reached into that beard and dug for a pulse. The most memorable part of his time in the bagne was the moment of his greatest mistake. 

Javert closed his eyes for a moment and ungloved his malfunctioning hand to inspect it. His fingers still curled and nothing looked wrong with any of them. "You still remind me of the convict I suspected you to be," he said sadly, eyes still fixed on his hand. "I believe myself to be going mad. Knowing this, do you still wish to call me friend?" 

When he finally looked up, he saw that Madeleine was watching him with an unexpected pity - perhaps what some others would call sympathy - as opposed to the righteous indignation he expected. "It is as you told me, Monsieur," the Maire said. "I could not expect you to suddenly stop seeing what made you mis-identify me in the first place. It is fine." 

Madeleine smiled but Javert saw that it was clearly pained. And immediately an odd sense of protectiveness swelled in him. "I know that I am mistaken," the chief of police rushed to reassure. "The police will capture that convict as soon as possible, then even if someone else notices your resemblance to the convict they would not suspect you." Perhaps then he himself will also be be freed from this torture, of being reminded of the convict not just by the Maire, but by many of lesser resemblance. 

The Maire did not respond for a long time, just looking back at him still with that pained smile. And then, the man said simply, "Yes, thank you, Monsieur l'Officier de Paix." 

Javert nodded formally. "It is my duty to serve, Monsieur le Maire." 

"Well," Madeleine said after another long pause, picking up the newspaper he had set on his lap, "did you bring anything to work on today? Do not let me keep you from it, Monsieur." 

" _Oui_ ," Javert replied, reseating himself in the armchair and reaching into his bulging pocket. He placed two tissue-wrapped objects onto the table. "But before that, I think that if I am to be your friend, I must pay you back for your food. Would you like one of the sausage sandwiches I confiscated out of Vasseur's pants pockets?" 

"Ah!" said the Maire, his smile now much more lively. Madeleine picked up the closer one and looked at it somewhat skeptically. 

Javert quickly began to unwrap the other. "This must be a delicacy," he explained as long, nimble fingers worked, "because I have never witnessed any other human being swallow as much food as quickly, as Vasseur consumes one of these -- and he does this while trying to hide it from me!" 

Madeleine's smile finally reached his eyes as he followed Javert's lead and took a bite. He nodded appreciatively. 

"The only bad thing he had done to them is… perhaps sit on them. But that does not affect their taste, Monsieur le Maire." Javert said of the flattened, misshapen sandwiches while they ate. 

"Wait… you confiscated the poor man's lunch and left him to keep patrolling the markets?" 

"He still has a third sandwich in a hidden pocket. And he probably finished eating it before I reached the exit of the market square." 

Monsieur le Maire chuckled, and with not even a hint of disgust, took another good-sized bite. This savory, somewhat oily sandwich was more appealing to him than the bland biscuits his portress gave them for their Saturday meetings. 

Madeleine finished first and thanked Javert for the meal. The smile had gone, but the gaze was full of intent which made Javert wait for the Maire to speak. However when Madeleine turned away and went back to the newspaper, he took the hint and got to work. 

\- 

He sorted through the mail he brought along. One was simply a receipt of his rent payment, which he checked for correctness then returned to his pocket. The other was yet another letter from Jeanne De Val, however this time, unusually, sent without a book. With some unease, he skimmed through the text quickly. 

Following the woman’s usual interrogation - Are you well? Jean is still alive? - was a detailed description of 

a suspicious man whom she had seen a few times outside the door to her building, always there when she returned home from work and gone by the time she looked out from her window. 

Irritated to the point of wanting to rise from his seat and pace, though he controlled himself, he responded in a long lecture. "You drive me mad. This is the one time you actually should be talking to someone in the _Palais_ , yet you send a letter to me. If you can make a description of the man's face, bring it to the recently-promoted _Sécrétaire du Préfet_ Chabouillet. He recognizes you and will be happy to help you with this. Ask Pierre to check the lock and install a better one if necessary..." 

Javert filled the rest of the page with reminders such as to lock windows and to avoid traveling out alone, then responded to the two usual questions with the usual bluntness. He sealed the letter with wax and placed it into his pocket, all while Madeleine stole glances from behind the newspaper at the profile of his face. 

Not once did Madeleine try to make out the name on the letter. 

\--- 

Chief inspector Javert's sense of responsibility extended into his new private life, and this meant offering good advice to his one and only friend. 

So, despite never having seen anything of value in a town newsletter - if it was not written in an official report, it was either unimportant or sensationalized gossip - he procured a copy for himself the next week, curious why Madeleine would waste his time reading such drivel. And this was how he found himself nestled in his armchair early on a Saturday afternoon, accosting the front page with a scowl and narrowed eyes. 

"MONTREUIL-SUR-MER" proclaimed the bold font across the top; he nodded in agreement. "Le 8 Septembre 1821" declared a line of smaller font just below. He nodded again to acknowledge its correctness. Then he began to methodically work his way through the page, left to right, top to bottom, while Madeleine seemed engaged by a second copy of the same paper just next to him. 

Moments later he wadded up the page in a fit of irritation and tossed it behind his shoulder. The crumpled ball of newsprint rolled into a smoldering log in the fireplace and burst into flames. 

Madeleine dropped his newsletter and looked to him, taken aback by this sudden change in behavior. "What happened, Monsieur l'Officier? You seemed happy with that page just moments ago.” 

"They misquote me right on the first page!" Javert snorted, with a tilt of his head toward the fireplace. "This drivel is even worse than _La Gazette*_ of Paris." 

"Ah!" Madeleine said. He flipped to the front page and found the offending passage: 'Chief inspector Javert confirmed: 'The body of Monsieur Antoine Dupré, father of two, was found last sunday on _Promenade des Remparts_ near the intersection with _Rue Porte Becquerelle_. Cause of death was a fall from his horse.' He struck the page with a flick of his hand. "Yes, it was Édouard Dupré who died. This is an atrocity, Monsieur l'Officier -- but at least his funeral was well-attended.” 

Placated by this comment, Javert humphed and leaned out of his seat to see that in fact, Madeleine had been reading the announcements section. Javert scratched at his whiskers a bit and then, with a glint of realization in his eyes, turned to the corresponding section on the page still in his hand. He remembered from his investigation into the Maire's background that the man had a habit of attending funerals. Perhaps a morbid hobby, but certainly not in violation of the law. 

He looked for the first obituary item and read aloud, "Madame Gostiaux passed on Monday, wife of farmer Pierrick Gostiaux, mother of four." Then he stopped, waiting for a reaction. 

This confused Madeleine enough to make his smile fade for a moment. "Yes, that is correct," he confirmed finally. "I attended her funeral, Monsieur l'Officier. She is definitely the one who passed." 

Javert nodded in silent agreement. "Caron's anniversary mass was Tuesday," he read the next item, then paused meaningfully again. This seemed to make Madeleine feel self-conscious, as the man did not respond until Javert raised his eyebrows expectantly. 

"Yes," the Maire said, "that is also correct. I am certain because I attended the mass." 

Feeling very pleased with himself for correctly predicting his friend's response, and also finding this morbid hobby to be quite endearing, Javert gave Madeleine a smug smile. It was just a spontaneous, unforced gesture, and with his objective accomplished he was about to turn away and toss this second page also into the fire. But the flush which exploded across Madeleine's cheeks and the swiftness with which the man turned his face away, caught Javert's attention even though he was not looking for a reaction. 

"Monsieur le Maire?" Javert called, his concern multiplying as the man failed to respond. "Monsieur le Maire, are you unwell?" Uncertain of what to do, he leaned beyond the armrests and inspected the Maire's face. 

"Yes," Madeleine said, stuttering. "But I only feel a bit warm. It will pass once I take off my jacket." 

"I will put out this fire immediately," Javert said, quickly tossing the page of newsprint into the fireplace without even bothering to wad it up. 

'No need, Monsieur, I am feeling better already." True to the man's words, Javert saw that the blush was subsiding. He scratched his whiskers again, deep in thought. Javert, observant spy, was able to put two and two together: the Maire felt warm because of something he did. And he decided this was a good thing, which he should aim to do every week. 

\- 

Not long after this, Monsieur le Sécrétaire Chabouillet received the following cryptic message from Javert: "I found a way to endear myself to the Maire: by talking to him about funerals." Regarding this, the man would later comment to Thierry with pride, "At the age of forty-one, Javert has finally learned to tell a joke!" 

But, back to Montreuil-sur-Mer. The chief inspector began to make the Maire, a hardened convict who spent nineteen years in the hell of Toulon, blush like an innocent boy every week. 

“Hmmm… young Givry and Deneubourg became married on Wednesday,” Javert commented one Saturday. Then he watched the graying man next to him intently, in exactly the way he knew would make the man blush. 

“Yes, I signed their paperwork,” the Maire replied, trying to act like he was unaffected and failing dramatically. 

“But you did not attend their wedding?” 

"No." 

"But you attended both funerals this week," Javert said, and did not bother to wait for a confirmation because he knew he was right. "Wouldn't newlyweds feel honored by your presence, as much as the family of the deceased?" 

"The newlyweds need only someone to share their joy, not someone to give them comfort. I will only spoil their big occasion, Monsieur." 

Javert frowned. "But at times you seem joyous to me, Monsieur le Maire. Perhaps you will reconsider after you have shared my joy. Do you mind going for a brief patrol at the markets?" 

Smoothing his coat, Madeleine rose from his seat. "It will be my pleasure, Monsieur." 

\- 

To walk with Javert, with his head upright and free from chains, was once a fantasy for 24601. This was not something Madeleine ceased to be amazed by even now, after his chief inspector had escorted him countless times from one office to another. 

Vasseur happened to be standing just inside the entrance to the market square, telling a merchant to reinforce a damaged support strut at his stall before the c **l** oth awning collapsed onto the shoppers. As soon as he saw the two men approaching, he waved enthusiastically. 

Though most of his enthusiasm was reserved for the Maire. "Oh, Monsieur le Maire!" he exclaimed, raising a palm as if to give the man a clap on the shoulder but then thinking twice of his impulsiveness. "You have a most fantastic taste for food, not just an appreciation for sausage but you sent me sausage from Lorraine! Next time the chief confiscates my sandwiches, will you send me another pound of it?" 

Javert's glare at Vasseur was largely ignored. 

"No," Madeleine said with that smile of his, "I will send you another pound if you don't get any sandwiches confiscated for a month." 

"Ohh… I was going to use the sausage you sent me to make four sandwiches tomorrow…" Vasseur touched the brim of his hat to excuse himself, and walked away a dejected figure, consumed by a cruel dilemma. 

Together, they strolled through the square, which was still seething with eager customers, many carrying multiple bags in their arms. At some point Vasseur recovered from his depression and reported that there had in fact been some robberies since Javert's departure and despite the arrest he made, complaints kept coming. 

"This will be a joyous afternoon, Monsieur le Maire," Javert declared, rubbing his gloved hands together in an unusual demonstration of impatience. He gave a wordless signal to Vasseur and the two policemen separated, leaving in opposite directions but without losing sight of each other. 

Madeleine walked silently by Javert and reveled in the excitement which lit up the chief inspector's face. This was an emotion Madeleleine knew well, though for different reasons, for in his youth as Jean Valjean he only poached for wild game, never hunted men. He could only be glad that, at least for the moment, he was not Javert's target. 

They walked halfway across the square until suddenly Javert stopped short: a few feet to his left, a man of undistinguished appearance stepped up behind a _demoiselle_ who was busy taking a look at an exquisite collection of parasols. For eyes unaccustomed to the ways and means of criminals, everything seemed perfectly normal. For Madeleine, what was happening was only too obvious. 

"Thief, keep your hands out of her purse!" boomed the Chief Inspector’s voice, startling all around him. 

The man turned with incredible calm pretending to be clueless. Yet a single glance at Javert was sufficient for him to realize that his trick did not work. The man assessed his situation: on his left, Javert and Madeleine approached rapidly; on his right, Vasseur was making his way through the crowd slowly but surely towards him. Without thinking twice, the thief grabbed the screaming _demoiselle_ by the shoulders and threw her hard against the nearest group of shoppers who, terrified and confused, scattered obstructing the progress of the Officier de Paix. 

"Your theft is now a robbery," Javert declared. For a moment his eyes were fixed on the woman, who looked possibly bruised and in a fit of nerves, but otherwise unharmed. When Monsieur le Maire and her young suitor knelt beside her to provide help, Javert raised his arm towards Vasseur instructing him to close down from the opposite direction. 

The thief forced his way through the crowd by pushing and punching, but the crowd parted for the easily recognizable chief inspector and soon he was surrounded by a few men - strong and trying to aid the arrest out of civic duty. The thug saw that Javert had arrived and that he was cornered. Like a rat putting on a fight out of desperation, he pulled a knife from his pocket and waved it with a fierce look. Those who were close enough to see screamed in panic. 

“Now it is an armed robbery,” Javert roared. And then, never taking his eyes away from the criminal, he added with supreme authority to the populace: “Calmly step to the perimeter of the square for a few minutes, no need to drop your merchandise.” 

Madeleine, who was slowed by his limp, was bewildered by the obedient dispersal of the crowd, which quickly left only four men standing in the center of the square: the thief, the policemen, and himself. Casting a sidelong glance, Javert extended his right arm as a clear warning that ordered the Maire to remain behind him. 

Surrounding the offender with the help of Vasseur, Javert spoke again, this time using a icy, professional tone: “Do not make this more difficult. Keep running and it will be resist of arrest.” 

When the criminal seemed frozen in indecision, Javert took a step forward. This was enough for the thief to drop his knife and display his open hands. In the blink of an eye, Vasseur was putting shackles around his wrists. After a satisfied nod from Javert, his partner picked up the weapon as evidence and left with the criminal to the police station. 

A few more minutes later and the crowd was back to their routine, as if nothing happen at all. Madeleine rubbed his forehead, momentarily astonished. "This was really impressive, Officier Javert." He said for lack of better words. 

" _Merci_ , Monsieur le Maire." Javert's deep satisfaction was apparent through his calm nod. "We can go back to read the weekly drivel, Monsieur le Maire, or perhaps you would prefer to stay until the market closes?" 

Madeleine chose the latter almost without thinking. With Vasseur away, he felt uneasy leaving the market unguarded. This afternoon Javert had reminded him that crime was not always motivated by hunger, nor committed by ignorant or desperate men. Sometimes hungry people needed not only bread but also protection against the beasts nesting among them. "This could have become a bloodbath ... all those people off guard ..." he said without hiding his horror. 

" _Non_ , Monsieur. Not under my watch." Almost without thinking of it, Javert slowed his steps to accommodate Madeleine's natural rhythm and walked shoulder to shoulder with the Maire. For Javert, this afternoon was revelatory for a different reason: he realized that perhaps the warmth he felt was not because of the successful arrest, but because of the man by his side. "Did you enjoyed the arrest?" he asked, while they watched the crowds. 

"Yes, Monsieur. Thank you." 

"Then you see that you should change your mind about attending weddings." 

Madeleine smiled. "Perhaps you are right," he agreed, "they will also appreciate my presence." 

\--- 

Next Tuesday, an embarrassed Monsieur Madeleine decided to remain in the church after the memorial Mass of Monsieur Monier and attend the baptism which followed. 

The children of wealthy families were baptized on Sunday and honored by many people, while children born to poor parents were washed of their original sin whenever circumstances allowed, and in many cases, the ceremony was just a formality. However, in the eyes of God, all souls had the same value, and all were endowed by Him with the same purity. 

When he offered a small donation to allow the baptized child and her three siblings to have milk, bread and wood to keep them warm through the winter, the child's father nearly wept in gratitude. That evening Madeleine left the church feeling a little more at peace with the world, as he had not only offered consolation, as usual, but he had given something extremely valuable, something he did not know he possessed: joy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confit Meat: Meat cooked, deboned and preserved in fat. This can be kept in good condition for months.
> 
> La Gazette: Parisian newspaper in print from 1631 to 1915  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Gazette
> 
> Use of fake weights:  
> 1810 Criminal code Art. 479 (Third Class Offenses)  
> Shall be punished by a fine of eleven to fifteen francs inclusive, 
> 
> 5\. Those who have false weights and false measures in their stores, shops, workshops and trading houses, or in the halls, fairs or markets, without prejudice to the penalties that will be imposed by the correctional police courts against those who would used these false weights or measures such false;


	44. Almost Loved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RL problems caused the posting delay, and essentially limited this update to half a chapter. But the story will be moving quickly over the next ~3 chapters.

The shrill call of the whistle rang insistently in his ears and drilled needles into his temples. He, 24601, opened his heavy eyes to spinning surroundings and tried to shield his head with his bare arms. Feeling too ill to to drag his chains to the crane and pull the rope until sunset, he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the fall of the first blow. 

"Hey, Luc! Beware of those crates, man! You'll ruin Monsieur Madeleine with your clumsiness!" 

Confused and suppressing a cough, he sat on his narrow bed and looked: ugly wallpaper, not exposed stone. He was in Madeleine's bedroom, he had woken into Madeleine's life. That whistle was not meant for him, but that changes nothing. He was late. 

Ignoring the soreness in his muscles, he struggled up and hurried to prepare for his day. In many ways Monsieur Madeleine was as much a slave as 24601. 

\- 

A sensible man would have postponed the matters that were not of extreme urgency, but Madeleine did not think himself worthy of such privileges. He spent his work day at the Mairie shivering from cold and sweating from unbearable heat. If anyone noticed he was sick, nobody said a word about it. However, even his endurance had a limit and when evening finally fell and he could retire to his factory, he picked up the day's production reports to read and bypassed his desk chair in favor of the more comfortable armchair. 

When he felt an incessant shaking and looked up to see Javert's face before him, he thought he was dreaming even though his last memory was of reading through a table of numbers. It was not until the man crouched to gather the papers which had inexplicably scattered on the floor, and then handed them back in a neat stack, that Madeleine realized the Chief of Police probably needed to report on something. 

"What… is something wrong, Monsieur?" he asked. 

" _Oui_. You are unwell, Monsieur le Maire," Javert responded. And then Madeleine felt a blessedly cool touch on his cheek, from one of the man's huge hands, out of its glove. He leaned into the hand and moaned a complaint when it, and its owner, went away. 

He closed his eyes and tried to keep dreaming. Even in dreams, it was wonderful to believe that he no longer had to suffer alone - this sickness or any other hardship - despite being the most unworthy of men, a beast gagged by a newly acquired conscience. Javert, of all men, here by his side when he was most vulnerable, filling him with hope by the man's very presence... 

A cold cloth deposited without much finesse on his forehead, woke him up. "Hold this, Monsieur," said the policeman while guiding his hand toward the damp cloth, then he returned to the table where he had left a small box, about which he busied himself. "I came to inform you that I must leave to Étaples to investigate a homicide," the man said, with his back turned. 

Before Madeleine could remember how far Étaples was, Javert continued, "This will not heal you, but you will be able to rest overnight. Sometimes that is enough." Suddenly a cup partially full of amber fluid was held up to his lips. The sharp smell of rum, unmasked by the accompanying scent of lemons, made him wrinkle his nose and turn away. 

"No, Javert, alcohol ..." Madeleine was now awake, watching how the Chief Inspector moved back to the table to fill the cup with hot water and add into it a lump of sugar. 

"The first time I had to drink one of these, the cook of Chaîne where I worked, was forced to carry me in his cart for two days. But do not worry, Monsieur le Maire, I will not let you embarrass yourself.” The policeman placed the cup in his hand, speaking in a firm voice that brooked no argument. "You must drink this while hot." 

Madeleine raised the cup with his unsteady hands and took a hesitant sip. Then Javert’s hand pushed his own, tilting the cup so he had to swallow in big mouthfuls. When he looked at Javert with tears stinging his eyes, it was as if he had traveled twenty years back in time, when Javert's voice lured him to sleep. It was easy to feel that he, Madeleine, deserved this attention and belonged to the man who gave this care. 

And as if able to sense what Madeleine could not voice, the policeman was no longer pushing the cup, but rather supporting Madeleine's hand carefully, almost tenderly. Or perhaps this was still him dreaming, because Javert's hand touched his cheek again. This dream would be perfect if only Javert was not frowning. 

A hand gripping his upper arm pulled him out of his seat, up to his feet, and eventually to the stairs leading to his room, lit only by the flickering light of the candle the concierge left at the door. Madeleine slumped against Javert’s lean body, only partially for lack of balance. He was drunk, not with the rum he ingested but by Javert's scent of coarse soap, which he had no trouble to recognize after twenty-something years. And he knew that this time, he ran no risk of being rejected because Javert was doing this out of choice. He raised his hand and placed it on Javert’s broad back, rubbing the muscles which tensed with effort to support his weight. Moving his hand slowly, in an awkward caress, he eventually wrapped his entire arm around Javert's slim waist, out of fear that the man would depart. 

And abruptly, the steps finished. Javert reached into his pocket and showed him a key. He recognized it: the key to his room, which he leaves with the concierge every day. "I will light the fire while you prepare yourself for bed, Monsieur le Maire," Javert said as he turned the key in the door's lock. 

The soft click broke something painfully inside Madeleine, and a freezing fear fell upon him when the door to the room opened. His mind regained lucidity brutally. What the hell had he been thinking? If the Chief Inspector saw his antique silver candlesticks, if Javert saw his disfigured ankle or lacerated back, life would be over for Madeleine. 

"No!" he stuttered, trying to put himself in front of Javert to block him from the door - that did not work, though he did manage to lean a bit less heavily on the man. 

"No?" asked Javert, clearly unconvinced. 

"Thank you, Monsieur l'Officier, but I think I can handle it from now. I do not wish to keep you from your duty any longer.” 

Javert seemed to hesitate for a moment. But then he said, "As you wish, Monsieur le Maire, send word to me when you wake." And then, with the same suddenness with which he first showed up, the man was gone. By the time Madeleine remembered the original reason why Javert came - the homicide in Étaples \- and tried to call the man back to remind him that he must remain in town while the Maire is incapacitated, the man had already exited the building. 

He entered his room and locked the door behind him. He trusted Javert to know his duty as the town's Chief Inspector. In fact, that was exactly the problem. 

\- 

When Madeleine woke again, the sun was already midway through its descent below the horizon. His body still felt tired and sore, and his mind relentlessly grappled with blurry memories of everything which happened the previous day. Nevertheless, his headache and dizziness were gone. 

So he went in to catch up with work - not much of it, because Javert had taken care of most of the items which could be delegated - and was able to return home long before he felt need to sleep again. There, sitting in his armchair, he pondered whether he was being overly dramatic to worry for Javert's safety during the man's pursuit of a homicide suspect. Deciding that, yes, he was being ridiculous, he turned to his usual thoughts of Javert, those thoughts which kept him company between Saturday evenings. 

He wrote all of his thoughts onto a few sheets of paper, as he was in the habit to do. He wrote about how Javert - almost - made him feel loved and protected, and of his despair when he was forced to turned the man away. He asked himself for how much longer did he want to look Javert in the eye and continue lying. 

Madeleine was - and still is - a prisoner of the lies he had woven all around him. He wrote about how each and every one of his lies were borne of only a very human, almost innocent need to ensure his survival. Yet now, they were a sentence condemning to death Jean Valjean, the man who loves and wishes to be loved. 

He wrote about how Javert shared with him the simple, humble joys of companionship and a patrol at the market, and he wondered whether in his life as Madeleine - a life full of loss and self-imposed secrecy - there was any joy worthy to be shared. He was not even free to celebrate the true day of his birth with his friend. His upcoming so-called birthday, the date written on his official documents, October 7, was fake. However, this lie too had its reason for existence, for that was the day when Jean Valjean fell to his absolute lowest and became reborn as Madeleine, by the hand of _Monseigneur_ Bienvenu Myriel, Bishop of Digne. 

Madeleine left his writing desk and walked to stand in front of his mantle. On it, next to the pair of toys Javert repaired and gifted to him, were his treasured pair of silver candlesticks, their elegant patterned sides shined to a mirror finish. The gift from Bishop Myriel, for him to become an honest man. Blinking away tears, he raised his head to God and asked whether it was possible to live an honest life while lying to avoid arrest. 

It was only six years ago that he left the _bagne_ as Jean Valjean, with a small bag of coins and a small but tangible hope that it was possible to earn a living. Within days he was swindled, beaten, reviled and rejected as a danger, a vermin. In the face of such unjust suffering and insurmountable prejudice, he retreated into himself, convinced that he had lost his human condition: detained, he was a beast; freed he would be a monster. 

Myriel was an obvious and easy victim, the only man crazy enough to provide him shelter and food for nothing. Naive to the point of talking him as an equal, carefully avoiding moralism and reproaches. Foolish enough to not hide his silver cutlery. Valjean stole, moved only by greed, and fled overnight. 

He had only vague memories of that terrible night, as it was almost indistinguishable with the instances when he fled the bagne, and with the same outcome. When the gendarmes dragged him back to the bishop in chains, with only a confirmation required for a life sentence as a repeat offender, Bishop Myriel gave him a benevolent, gentle smile and lied. Yes, he recognized his guest from the night before, and yes, that was his cutlery in the bag, but they were not stolen. They were gifts. This man is not a thief. 

Jean Valjean had received the highest imaginable act of mercy: Along with his freedom, Myriel gave him two ancient silver candlesticks and reminded him kindly of a promise which he had never made: he would use the silver to become an honest man. Yet he, Jean Valjean, was too enraged and scared to understand. 

It had taken him only hours to betray the bishop, when he refused to return a forty-sous piece to a young chimney-sweep for the petty grievance that the boy had irritated him. After the boy left in tears he finally looked down at the coin in his palm and understood that he lived a despicable existence. He cried himself to exhaustion, but it was too late: his fate as a fugitive had long been sealed. 

With his rosary in his fingers, Madeleine said his nightly prayers. 

He felt that by being less than honest to Javert, he was betraying the Bishop a second time. At least for now it was impossible to be completely honest, but maybe he could eliminate the lies between them one at a time. Maybe he could explain to Javert that he once was a cruel, ruthless man and a saint changed his life. Perhaps in due course, even the strict and irreproachable Javert would grant him mercy. Mercy and love, which he could accept with open arms. 

Taking one last glance at those silver candlesticks, he returned to his desk and wrote out a letter inviting Javert to celebrate the birth of Madeleine with a simple dinner in his modest room. He will start by making up for the way he denied Javert entry into his room so abruptly. There may not be much left in his room after he hides his manuscripts and the candlesticks in his concealed closet, along with the few items he kept from the _bagne_. But he would bare to Javert everything else, and hope that will be enough. 


	45. The Unhappy Book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers: 
> 
> Merry Christmas and happy holidays! Though I wouldn't call this chapter a happy one, it is a critical one and I am guessing it will make quite a few of you very happy.
> 
> \- fengxiaoj and groucha

Javert arrived punctually at the dinner appointment, that was expected, but his appearance for the occasion was excellent: his boots were freshly polished, his whiskers trimmed a little neater: not enough, perhaps, for a random person on the street to notice, but the man who held his hand in welcome was Madeleine, and so it was not only noticed but also appreciated.

"Happy birthday, Monsieur le Maire," Javert said and gave Madeleine the obligatory smile. However, Madeleine could tell that Javert was distracted: the policeman could not disguise the shocked disbelief overtaking his face as he, being a full head taller than Madeleine, looked past his host and around the barren room. Madeleine was certain he left nothing incriminating in plain view, so he did not comment and only offered to take Javert's hat and coat.

When Javert unbuttoned his coat to reveal a uniform which had clearly been starched, Madeleine blushed for all the trouble the man took. Somehow it caught his eye that the uniform was nearly the same shade of very dark blue as that of the guard uniform, which reminded him of the night sky.

"I did not expect your room to be so… frugal," Javert commented finally.

The small room was furnished with a wardrobe and dresser whose woods of different hues were partially covered by the same wallpaper decorating the walls. An ordinary washbasin and a narrow bed, sunken in the center, sat sullenly in the far corner. The bookshelf, really the only non-essential piece of furniture in the room, was loaded with books in modest and mismatched bindings. The oil lamp on the mantelpiece and a few candles scattered here and there bathed the room in a warm glow which only served to highlight its barrenness.

"Is this because you…" Javert continued, hesitating and gesticulating with his hands uncharacteristically for a moment before spitting out the next word with emphasis, "handed, all your money away to the homeless?"

“No, Javert, it is because I do not need more.” Amused by the way in which his guest tried not to make his opinion too belligerent, Madeleine lowered his eyes to watch the tips of his shoes.

Hoping to change the topic before he would be forced to lie, he led Javert to his humble wooden table, its curving legs polished smooth instead of carved - the kind of table one would expect to find in the home of one of Madeleine's workers. Two sets of pewter utensils, napkins, glasses and plates were already laid out. Once Javert settled into the seat, Madeleine opened the bottle and filled both glasses.

"I was taught as a young man to save up my earnings for a wife," Javert said, setting his glass down without taking a sip. "I only expected for someone as rich as you, Monsieur le Maire, to be able to save while still spending more on yourself."

"Ah..." Madeleine uttered unintelligibly and tried to swirl the wine in his glass to allow it to breathe. To Madeleine, privacy was both a necessity and an invaluable luxury. It should have been easy for a man known for his generosity to grant this privacy to Javert, but his need to know, to possess, and the small pang of absurd jealousy in his heart, made this impossible.

“So you did have a wife?” he asked, his voice cracking with hope.

Javert shook his head. “ _Non_. Did you have a wife?"

"No ... no-" Madeleine stuttered. The spontaneity in Javert’s tone made clear that the policeman did not share his qualms for this topic, but this did not help him find something coherent to say. Neither did the way Javert looked at him, uncomprehending, with those stormy steel-blue eyes.

If he had the courage, he would admit right now that he never was attracted to a woman, that he was scared and hated himself because his desires were depraved in the eyes of God. If he had the will to be fully honest to Javert, as he prayed the entire afternoon for the strength to do, he would confess over this meal all the dreams he dreamt for years and years, of Javert and Javert alone. As if Javert was the only person able to awaken in him not only a tender, disarming affection but also a devastating fire that he - and the beast he used to be - never managed to fully tame. But the words would not come.

If Javert will only show the slightest interest in him, maybe in future dinners like this, then maybe he could… Madeleine bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to pay attention to the graphic images in his mind's eye, from dreams dreamt in repetition until they turned memories, a feat of alchemy to rival that of lead turned to gold. He blushed to the roots of his hair.

An awkward silence fell over the room. Madeleine pretended to be engrossed by the wine’s intense red color to avoid his guest’s eyes. He was grateful for the fortuitous timing of his portress, whose knock on the door afforded him a chance to step away from his seat. The woman, favored by him for her discreet personality, deposited a glazed earthenware pot onto the table and quickly departed. The savory scent of stewed meat filled the room.

The food was simple, which suited the unrefined tastes of both men. Their main course for the evening was a _carbonade flamande_ \- a hearty beef stew slowly simmered in dark beer - and Madeleine had ensured that his portress did not spare on the beef nor the seasonal vegetables. Ever grateful for this chance to be host to Javert, Madeleine bowed his head in silent prayer, made the sign of the cross, and broke the bread. He asked for Javert's plate and filled it with stew, careful to ladle up extra cubes of beef. They dug into their plates without further ceremony.

“This is a strong wine,” Madeleine commented in an attempt at casual conversation.

Javert took a sip from his glass, allowing the wine to dwell on his tongue for a moment, and nodded. “ _Oui_. This shiraz was highly recommended by Vasseur.”

Madeleine raised his eyebrows to hide an uncharacteristic smirk. “Because it pairs perfectly with a plate of Lorrainer sausage?”

“I did not want to hear his answer so I refrained from asking the question, Monsieur le Maire.”

Madeleine chuckled and dipped his fork back into the stew. However, it was not the food which occupied his mind, but the way in which Javert worked through his portion: neat and efficient, spoonful by spoonful without showing preference for anything in particular. The Chief Inspector ate like a man who had known hunger.

Madeleine recalled the malnourished boy in the _Chaîne_ but the comment he made to his guest, despite its earnestness, was safe to the point of being trite: "I had not thanked you for accepting my invitation on short notice, Monsieur l'Officier. I hope this is not inconveniencing your work."

Javert took a moment to finish chewing and to swallow the food in his mouth before responding. “It is not an inconvenience, Monsieur le Maire. I am a bit concerned about Vasseur's ability to handle a screaming woman in the jail, but perhaps she will decide to calm down."

“This one screaming woman is causing so much trouble?"

Javert set down his fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Two nights ago we responded to a report of a domestic dispute, and when we arrived we found a half-dressed husband sprinting down the street, chased by both his spatula-wielding wife and his pants-wielding servant. It was public indecency and a disturbance of the peace. Vasseur chased her down by throwing a sandwich at her." He paused when Madeleine exhaled a laugh but then continued delivering his report solemnly. "She had since spent two nights in jail screaming abuse at Vasseur. We are not accepting payment of her fines until she proves herself fit to be released."

Madeleine could hardly hide his nervous grin behind his napkin. "Vasseur threw a sandwich at her?" he asked in disbelief.

Javert nodded in his dignified manner. "It struck her in the face and disintegrated. He arrested her while she was trying to pick out slices of sausage from her hair. She had been angrily demanding that Vasseur buy her soap."

Madeleine, perfectly capable of visualizing the entire situation, was by this point trying to stifle his laughter with his own fist. " _Excusez-moi._.." he barely managed, embarrassed and flushed, his broad shoulders shaking.

The chief inspector watched him intently for a moment, eyebrows raised, before concluding placidly: "I helpfully explained to her that she was wasting her breath because that is not in our budget. She ignored me and kept screaming."

The table groaned when Madeleine, his midsection aching and his laughter erupting out of him, slammed down his hand. The still mostly full wine bottle rocked precariously and Javert, who was watching the Maire with a bemused smile, reached out to stabilize it. A rough, boisterous laugh - certainly not the laugh one would expect from a sophisticated man, - echoed in the small room as Madeleine gave up and stopped holding it back.

In the bedroom directly beneath them, Monsieur Erik Meyfroidt dropped his spoon into his bowl of soup and gaped at his ceiling, startled by the laughter and the thumping. The factory’s old cashier scratched his neck and held his breath in anticipation, straining to hear more. Clearly the reclusive Monsieur Madeleine had a visitor tonight, undoubtedly the hermit-like Chief Inspector Javert. What odd thumping! And he had never in the six years he had know Madeleine heard the man laugh even once. Perhaps Madame Victurien, worker at the factory, would have some theories as to what is happening. Disappointed that the laughter was subsiding and thinking that he will be sure to check with her tomorrow, he turned back to his onion soup.

Madeleine did not take long to regain his composure. He apologized again as he dried his eyes with his napkin, and then both men continued their dinner in companionable silence. Their plates were refilled. He offered Javert another piece of bread. And in doing so, Madeleine - Jean Valjean - found enough courage to disclose a bit of the truth.

"Now we are friends, I want you to know something about me," he said slowly, deliberately, without making eye contact. "I was a hateful man, who only saw his neighbors as threats to protect myself from. I acted out of anger, greed and selfishness."

He heard a soft clang as Javert rested his fork against the lip of his plate. The response he offered was a surprisingly sympathetic one: "It is natural to think of neighbors as threats, in many towns a lot of thefts are committed by neighbors." And then there was a tense silence. "As for acting out of anger, greed and selfishness…" Javert said, "well, Monsieur le Maire, I do not understand what you mean. Can you explain further?"

At this moment, Madeleine realized that he had no way to explain the hatred without telling about how he was being mistreated as a man on parole. And obviously he could not admit to ever being on parole, because that would be admitting that his records were false. "Ah, you are right," Madeleine said. "It is not unusual to suspect my neighbors. Please, keep eating."

"But, Monsieur le Maire, I still do not understand."

"It is nothing," Madeleine said sadly.

When he carried some cheese over to the plate and saw that Javert's wine glass was near empty, he moved to refill it. This was rejected with a simple: " _Non, merci_ ", which Madeleine accepted with a good-natured smile. He noticed dark circles had appeared under Javert’s eyes, their usual sharpness now dulled. The man's face was flushed. Madeleine filled his own glass to avoid staring any longer.

He just realized that his Chief Inspector must have spent at least part of both of the past two nights at the station, because he was concerned about the enraged woman. And the night prior to that was the night he himself recovered from fever, finally allowing Javert to rush to Étaples and investigate that homicide. The man was probably exhausted, yet he still accepted this dinner invitation without even a mention of this.

“Monsieur, you appear tired to me,” he ventured, in a gentle tone meant to be nonjudgmental.

Unsurprisingly, Javert nodded. “I apologize, Monsieur le Maire," he said. "The alcohol is making me drowsy and I am being a poor friend.”

Indeed, Javert never drank and was barely able to tolerate alcohol. Thus, if in his youth a grog had the power to make him sleep for two days, almost thirty years later, it was still able to knock him out for a day and a half. In Madeleine's eyes, he was appearing more flushed by the minute. Without showing how he was distressed by Javert’s last statement, Madeleine stood up and retrieved their coats.

“Nonsense," the Maire said, handing Javert his coat and top hat. "I will not keep you any longer. After how you cared for me when I was sick and made time for this dinner out of your busy schedule… it is the least I can do to walk you home.”

\---

 

The cold, damp night air that portended a heavy frost cleared Javert's head somewhat. And in turn, this assuaged Madeleine's guilt and allowed him to stop dwelling on the sad thought that he wasted yet another opportunity to be honest with Javert. Instead, his mind turned to more pleasant thoughts, as every time they walked together. This night the tide had turned: it was Madeleine who was the protector, and he watched Javert's slightly errant steps while basking in a lighthearted joy. He wondered whether his Chief Inspector felt something similar while escorting him. He wished it were so.

Neither of them broke the amiable silence, not even when they arrived at the door of a weather-worn building and Javert stopped, reaching into his pocket. When he found the key - the one the portress entrusted to him after suffering through weeks of his habit of returning from work at ungodly hours - he turned to Madeleine, expecting to say his farewells. However, despite clearing his throat as if to speak, the Maire then changed his mind. Reading from the man's body language that he did not intend to leave just yet, Javert simply accepted this and ushered the Maire into the building.

Picking up the candle which the portress had left for him at the vacated front desk, Javert made his way up the stairs, checking more than once whether Madeleine was following behind him. On the second floor Javert used a different key to open door number two, revealing a dark and cold room.

Turning to Madeleine again, he finally spoke. “Monsieur le Maire, I would sit with you for a bit longer but the alcohol is affecting me. I fear if I do not sleep now, I will be ineffective at work tomorrow.”

Madeleine was tempted to turn around and leave. He can understand to what extent the other man was exhausted, and the stark shadows the candle cast on Javert’s face made the policeman look sickly pale. After a while, he felt no more fear, no more hesitation. He only felt a painful need to protect. “I will light the fire for you, like you offered to do for me, Monsieur,” he said.

“But you are the maire of this town, Monsieur,” Javert replied sadly, almost whispering. “You should not do such things.”

Madeleine moved half a step closer, lifting his head to keep looking into Javert’s eyes. “I am the maire of Montreuil-sur-Mer, not the King of France, Javert,” he said, compelled by some emotion to match Javert's whisper. All the things he would willingly do for Javert passed through his head. Tonight, for the first time, a few of those things seemed possible. "Will you allow me to be a friend to you, Monsieur?" he asked.

Javert studied him for a moment and then nodded. " _Oui_ , Monsieur," he said, guiding Madeleine to the very old coal stove sitting in one corner of his tiny room before turning to light his oil lamp using the candle. Madeleine immediately got to work: he bent down to verify there was no build-up of flammable dust and soon shook his head, smiling. Obviously, the monstrosity was spotless: Javert took care of it. Knowing that he was imposing his presence, he carefully turned away from the rustle of clothes and focused on preparing splinters to start the fire.

“I need to step out for a moment, Monsieur.”

“Yes… this will take a while. I will be here.”

Alone, while the first pieces of coal glowed dull red, Madeleine allowed himself to look around. Though he could see very little in the dark, he could see Javert’s bed behind him, as narrow as his own. The sight of it overwhelmed him with a sense of melancholy. He forced himself to look instead to his left, where an old bookcase was leaning against the wall. Oil lamp in hand and with a sense of guilt eating away his insides, he headed there, trying to convince himself that what he was doing could not be considered spying his Chief of Police, since he had the man's tacit approval.

By the time Javert returned, he was back squatting in front of the stove, gradually adding coal. "I could not help but notice that you're fond of reading, Monsieur. That is a beautiful collection of books," he said. "I must confess that lately I read anything I can get. It is not easy to find interesting books in a small town such as this."

"You are free to borrow any of them. Monsieur le Maire. They may not be the best books, but to me the crime novels are at least far superior to the weekly drivel which you appreciate."

Madeleine smiled. "Would you mind if I take some time to browse through while you sleep, and choose one to borrow?" he asked. Javert shook his head. Emboldened, he asked further: "Only tell me, which one is your favorite?"

"Romeo and Juliet, but it is an unhappy book," replied Javert, who was sitting on the bed to remove his boots. When the policeman pulled his nightgown out from under his pillow and began to undress, Madeleine turned away once more.

"Sometimes tragedies make for good reading,” said the Maire, getting up to add another small shovelful of coal. “Go to sleep. I will help myself out and notify your portress to lock your door."

He heard more rustling. And after Javert told him, “ _Oui. Bonne nuit_ , Monsieur.” The rustling ceased.

Madeleine waited a few minutes longer before he even turned his head to look. Javert laid on his back, his woolen blanket pulled all the way up to his lower lip, seemingly fast asleep. Madeleine felt for the temperature of the stove one last time before turning to the bookcase.

Unsurprisingly, the shelves were labeled. However, none of the categories matched what he would expect for the play Romeo and Juliet. Was it a practical book? A law book? A crime novel? In the end, he ignored the labels and simply searched the entire bookcase. He found the book filed under the label: 'Crime Novels'.  
Unable to resist a smile for Javert's odd classification scheme, he made a mental note of the other titles on the shelf before picking the copy of the Shakespearean play out from the row.

At first glance, the book appeared to be in near perfect condition, the thin but nicely oiled leather curiously only showing signs of wear in specific, small round spots. When he rotated the book in his hand and ran his index finger across one of those spots, he saw how there was a spot for each finger, matching not his hand but a hand quite a bit larger than his own. Javert's hand.

What could Javert possibly identify with in a story about young lovers, which many thought of as sensationalist smut? He carried the book over to the desk which probably doubled as dining table, and casually opened it to a random page under the illumination of the oil lamp. Immediately he was struck by a lot of handwriting - notes of warped, unconfident letters forming misspelled words, yet somehow arranged in neat lines all around the printed text.

He was familiar with the story and flipped through the pages, looking at how some of the handwriting was neater, some were even sloppier. But none of it was quite as neat and confident as the handwriting he had come to recognize as Javert's. But would he have purchased a used book so full of writing by its previous owner, or did a much younger Javert write all of this then suddenly stop writing?

Having reached the back of the book, he flipped back to the front to discover that, in fact, the notes began as early as the list of characters of the play. The entry for Romeo, son of Montague had been appended with an extensive list of his crimes: trespassing by night and by scaling of wall (p 36), homicide (p 95), suicide (p 113). Suddenly it was clear to Madeleine why Shakespeare's timeless romantic tragedy had been shelved as a crime novel.

Allowing his curiosity to guide his hands, he turned to the page where Romeo supposedly trespassed. Once there, it took him but seconds to recognize the scene, for it was the famous scene of Juliet at the balcony, when the young lovers first declared their love to each other. Next to the word 'balcony', a very young Javert had made a note to himself: "Part of nice house which overlooks yard. Like parapet in Toulon.”

That definition was obviously not quite right, but Madeleine's eyes were quickly drawn to the heart of the dialogue in the scene, which was not just full of notes but severely edited, multiple times. This page in particular was warped along the outer edge, handled so often by sweaty fingers that it no longer laid flat. And in this scene, at least what he could identify as Javert's final version of it, a lovestruck Romeo, trespassing inside his enemy's house, gazed up towards the balcony - the parapet - at Juliet, unable to take his eyes away.

Romeo, hidden from Juliet's view, thought to himself, "I have broken into your house by night just to stare at you! But this is not a theft, because I am not taking anything away from you."

Madeleine did not understand why Javert would change the dialogue in this way, yet with a heavy sense of foreboding he felt his knees go weak. The memory rushing into his mind was so vivid he was reliving it. The book sank in his hand, because it had become a tall stack of the large wooden planks which he used to carry with his knight - the first knight, what was his name again? Yes, Patou, Patou. The moist, salty wind lashed his torso through his torn smock. It brushed against his cheeks. He rubbed his weary eyes, trying to erase from them the image burned into his retina, but it was useless.

He was once again a convict trying to hide himself behind a stack of planks, unable to stop glancing up at the majestic young guard who stood atop the parapets, always with perfect posture, undaunted by the whipping wind. He could remember it as if it happened yesterday. He was a convict, hardened by a tough life, at least ten years older than the teenage, very naive Romeo. But the love he felt was the same. Sometimes his work took him near enough to the parapets that he could see not only the glint of sunlight off of Javert's boots but also the expression on the young guard's face. Those times, the seawater which splashed onto his face was salty and cold. He felt the seawater run down his face now, and tasted it on his lips. Salty, but hot.

The only thing he did not remember was Javert ever looking back down at him. Who could it be that Javert was thinking of, when he crossed out Juliet's confession of love to the starry night sky and wrote this: "Romeo, give up your criminal nature, and in exchange for this you can have me."? Shakespeare's Romeo? Or the convict he now know Javert still remembered more than twenty years later, number 24601?

Which one would tell Juliet, "You are very dear to me. I will go serve my sentence, and after that I will no longer be a criminal. I will be a man again."?

He remembered saying those exact words inside a dark, stinking _cachot_ , bleeding and in pain but above all, desperate to explain to the uncomprehending young guard how he had been held dear. And Madeleine closed his eyes to hear again Javert's faint sigh when he rubbed the guard's back and promised to one day be a man again. To feel again the vigorous body relaxing in his arms, warm and vulnerable.

He could remember now, the distress he saw on the young guard's face when he told how he was being forced into a fight he did not expect to survive. The kind of anguish that he himself felt knowing Javert in danger. And now he knew that inside that _cachot_ , the convict who thought he had lost all, had in his possession the love and hope of the man dearest to him. What would have become of his life, of both their lives, if he had known that his love was requited?

While choking back sobs, Madeleine asked himself what life would Javert be living if a convict had not naively made promises which were impossible to keep. Perhaps Javert would not sleep alone in a damp room. Perhaps Javert would spend his nights caring for someone and knowing he was loved. How much had Jean Valjean stolen and from whom?

Leaving the book behind he walked the few steps to Javert's bed, where the man was sleeping peacefully, his usual sullen frown relaxed away. With tears running freely down his face Madeleine cupped a shaking hand very carefully, very lightly, around Javert's cheek. "What should I do?" he mouthed through gasping breaths, "If only you could know how much I tried to be an honest man. But that does not matter now and I don't know what to do, Javert." Wiping away tears with his other hand, he whispered, trembling from the sob he could not hold back much longer, "Can you still love me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Penal Code of 1810  
> Article 467  
> Civil imprisonment is held for the payment of the fine.
> 
> Article 479.  
> Shall be punished by a fine of eleven to fifteen francs inclusive, (...)  
> 8 ° Perpetrators or accomplices of abusive or nocturnal noises or uproars, disturbing the peace of inhabitants.


	46. Blessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We apologize for the skipped week. Due to RL becoming busier, we can no longer guarantee weekly posts, even though that is what we try to aim for.

The stableboy hurried across the unwelcoming room, inadvertently hitting a wall with the heavy mailbag on his shoulder. A piece of plaster crashed to the ground under the gaze of the _Maître de Poste_ (post master) and one of the few customers at the station: a stocky, well-dressed man consulting the timetable. Besides the departures to Étaples and Saint-Pol, only two coaches were expected to pass through the town during the day: the post coach from Arras, which left hours ago, and the _coche de diligence_ (high speed coach) from Boulogne-sur-Mer, enroute to Paris. 

The _maire_ Monsieur Madeleine consulted his fob watch - utilitarian and reliable - and started toward the street, where horses, excited by the cold morning air stomped the uneven cobblestone impatiently. He settled inside the _diligence_ ’s sedan, allowed in first by the other boarding passengers, and gazed out the window restlessly. Only when the driver locked the door and the vehicle pulled away from the building, did his muscular shoulders, tensed nearly rock-hard, relax somewhat. 

\--- 

He did not believe any other man was ever more grateful than he for the fact that the _Bureau de Poste_ was located nearly at the edge of town, almost right next to the ramparts, making it virtually impossible for him to cross paths with Javert during his hasty exit. 

Responsibility as the _maire_ of a town, and even simple courtesy as a friend, required him to inform his Chief Inspector in person that he needed to make a trip to Paris urgently. It was during this unavoidable meeting when Javert assured, in his usual solemn tone, that order would be maintained in Montreuil-sur-Mer in the Maire's absence, no matter how long that needed to be. Then the Chief Inspector described in detail some suspicious behaviors to look out for and listed a few streets for him to avoid out of caution. 

It was all very formal and predictable. Except now he could read, with consummate clarity, the emotion underlying the frown on Javert's face. 

It was not merely the habitual show of displeasure by an infamously dour man, as everyone assumed. No. Now, far too late for it to make a difference, he finally knew why he always saw that glint of worry, that vulnerability in the man's eyes. That was distress. And if Javert was honest in that report, the man considered this distress to be his only weakness. This distress reserved only for him, Monsieur Madeleine. 

This distress which could only have arisen out of what was once a genuine love for the convict 24601. 

If before this meeting he was overcome with grief, after it, he was suffocating. And now he had successfully dodged Javert for the next few days. But really, what had he accomplished aside from adding to to his own guilt when he inevitably will meet Javert again, upon his return? 

The team of four strong horses hurried the _diligence_ across the unproductive plains of Picardy, where fields of barely sprouted wheat were lit to a coppery gold by the setting sun. Madeleine lowered his eyes from this view and distractedly reached inside his coat pocket to feel for the book. It was far too easy for him to imagine Javert sitting quietly somewhere in this moment, those sturdylips pressed together into a fine line, their corners drawn downwards until they nearly disappeared into those bushy whiskers. 

Should he feel guilt for being the cause of this distress? And what of those handwritten lines he had read and re-read, that constant reminder of a monstrous mistake, but also the source of his insufferable temptation? 

It was possible, even likely, for Javert to accept any advances from him. After all, what could Javert have seen in the convict? His looks, his physique, perhaps some aspect of his personality? There was nothing which Javert could have liked, which he did not still have, for the too obvious reason that he, Madeleine, is the same man, if only a bit older, a bit wiser. But how can he be any more than a friend to Javert without adding to the damage he had already done? 

One mistimed word, an inappropriate gesture... Even if there were true intimacy between them, a single poorly hidden scar will suffice for Javert to find out who it was that he held in his arms every night. How much had he hurt Javert the first time? How much was he willing to hurt Javert this second time? 

He only had answers too painful to accept. 

Bored with the small talk of his travel companions, he absentmindedly gazed out the window, looking forward to their stop at Abbeville so he could buy a newspaper to read tomorrow. But his hand returned of his own volition, tirelessly to his pocket and stroked the fine leather cover almost tenderly. By the time the coach stopped at Abbeville, he had reread the book completely. Rather, he had mentally recited the awkward notes, so maddening and yet sweetly comforting. 

The next leg of their journey will take them all the way to Beauville for their midday meal tomorrow, with intermediate stops only to change horses. As soon as the coach began rolling again, the two traveling salesmen sharing his compartment took off their shoes and stretched their legs on the opposite seat, blithely choosing comfort over manners. But their taking of small liberties was not an invitation for Madeleine to do the same, despite the increasing pain in his lame ankle. He did not dare seek relief, not at the risk of attracting attention to himself and put into question his respectability, which was his first defense against prying eyes. 

This was just another extension of his original sentence. How could he have foreseen that so many years later the fact of being a thief would still be defining his life? Unfettered, he was still unable to do the job he loved; with more money than he could spend, he had no one for whom to provide. With his best years left behind, when time was beginning to hurry, he was not even free to declare his love. How could he, when his very existence was hurtful to the one he loved? How could he find happiness with Javert, that simple joy of sitting alone with a loved one, when just looking at Javert made guilt gnaw at his gut, made him feel miserable? His chains were no longer made of metal, but their weight was crushing all the same. 

He crossed his arms over his chest and allowed himself to be lulled by the thud of trotting horses, trying to ignore the rattle of the car which was barely dampened by the spring-suspension. He could close his eyes but he could not shut his mind. How many unnecessary lies were there in his life? For years, he believed himself to be immune to lust and he had almost come to take pride in it. But now he knew that his so-called chastity had nothing to do with his piety or virtue, but only his inability to be aroused. If the body had no desire, the soul could not be tempted. 

And probably he would have lived the rest of his days happily ignoring this fact, if the arrival of Javert had not turned all his expectations upside down. Now, he spent his nights writhing in his bed, his hands very still, but imagining Javert’s weight on his body; hearing his deep voice repeat the name everyone else had long forgotten: Jean. In that one word was both plea and acceptance. And in Javert's forgiveness, in giving Javert pleasure, he had found happiness. This was no longer chastity; It was madness. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to stop thinking. He prayed until he fell asleep. 

\--- 

Rapid modernization in recent years had blighted Paris with a new and spreading plague: unsightly brick chimneys reached for the heavens, spewing a dense black smoke which blocked the sun and grayed some of the snow on the rooftops with soot. On top of this, the deafening roar of men, horses and carriages, the nauseating stench of drains running out in the open next to streets covered by mud and manure, the chronic dark corners in the shadow of towering buildings, the cold, wet pavements of the narrow streets: All these things unfailingly disheartened Madeleine every time he visited Paris. 

However Madeleine had not come to sightsee, and upon arrival he immediately attended to his usual business in the capital, which by this point he had already left neglected for months. 

His first stop was the sumptuous establishment run by Laffite, renowned bankier. Ragged children ran barefoot just outside its splendid lobby lined with sculpted marble, oriental rugs and oil portraits of respectable and gloomy bourgeois in gilded frames. He left with the assurance that his money was in excellent health and would be made available to him - in full - with only two days notice. 

Next he walked one block in the affluent center of Paris to his second stop, the office of his attorney. This time for an explanation. 

"Monsieur Madeleine, this is Monsieur Hue, the detective who had been responsible for your case. I can guarantee to you that he is one of the best in Paris," the attorney said, waving into the office a man dressed as a worker and reeking of alcohol. 

"I do not doubt it, but his accomplishments are mediocre at best," Madeleine replied. 

"Monsieur Madeleine," Hue said while relentlessly twisting and turning the cloth cap in his hands. "I met a woman who fit your description, even her name matched: Jeanne De Val. It is due to police intervention that I could not confirm her identity." 

"Police intervention," he repeated with skepticism in his voice. 

"Yes Monsieur, a lot of police!" 

And once more, Madeleine's happiness proved to be but fleeting. He learned that he will have all the money he needs to live out the rest of his life comfortably in hiding, should Javert discover his identity. But he will do so all alone. 

\- 

It was carrying this emotional burden that Madeleine walked to his meeting with Monsieur Dupuis, his biggest customer in the capital. The store-owner made himself available to meet despite extremely short notice, but it was also true that for some reason which Madeleine never cared to understand, the man held him in some esteem. Maybe it was related to the large sum of money Madeleine's products had deposited into Dupois' pockets, exactly when the man faced bankruptcy. 

In any case, what had begun as a brief meeting for Madeleine to present his new merchandise evolved into a business dinner at the famous and obscenely expensive restaurant Borel - Rocher de Cancale, on the rue Montorgueil. Shortly after being seated, Madeleine watched with some alarm as the waiter arranged raw oysters onto his plate. The glistening bugs were repulsively gelatinous, almost slimy, and he had to empty two glasses of white wine before deciding to taste them. His disappointment was complete: they tasted like the sea that drenched the _Bagne_. 

He was tempted to bite into the lemon which accompanied the seafood to clean that sickening feeling from his mouth, but restrained himself because this sort of behavior was unacceptable at such a fancy restaurant. His mood soured further. 

He had many reasons to be joyous: Dupuis negotiated with him an order which will keep his factory working at full capacity throughout the winter. But this time, God’s generosity was wasted on him. Despite understanding the magnitude of what he had accomplished - security for his workers, money for new hires and for his philanthropic work, safety for himself - only melancholy and a cold feeling of abandonment found a place in his soul. His mind wandered between all he had lost and what he could still expect from life. 

For the first time in many years, the balance was daunting. 

Must he allow his feelings for Javert to be another casualty of the theft? Did he already lose his claim to the eternal life promised by God the moment he felt that lust? What would eternal life be worth to him, what would he have left of this mortal life on earth if he forced himself away from Javert? 

The exquisitely marinated boar meat cooled on his plate. 

He despaired between anger and self-pity while, on the seat to his right, Dupuis babbled on and on. Soon an oddly out-of-place gesture over in an adjacent table caught his attention: a young man who appeared to be dining with his parents case a meaningful looking into the distance and then unfolded the sleeve of his frock coat. Dark, distant memories resurfaced in Madeleine’s mind. When the young man raised his right hand to his chin and bowed almost imperceptibly, Madeleine, the man who had spent nineteen year of his life in the _Bagne_ , understood. He quickly followed the young man's eyes, just in time to see a man dining at a different table nod in return without making eye contact. 

He had seen these signals many times. Thus was how coincidence showed him a way, and even though he had never before imagined himself committing such an act, in his current state of despair this seemed almost natural. 

Feeling his mouth go dry, Madeleine took a sip of wine and confided to Monsieur Dupuis that he was suffering from a terrible stomachache. Twenty minutes later, he declined an offer to share a fiacre with his client and then proceeded to stand in wait, in a suitably dark corner. When the man who mutely accepted the young man's invitation left the restaurant, Madeleine followed him down the street. 

The man ventured with slightly unsteady gait into increasingly narrow streets. Lighted lamps became scarce, and at some point the busy bourgeois and luxurious establishments disappeared to make way for noisy taverns. On these streets well dressed men walked with their hats pulled down over their eyebrows while workers passed their bottles from hand to hand trying their best to get drunk on Saturday night. Women, some of whom little more than girls and others already with their best years behind them, and effeminate men lined up along the walls like cattle, displaying their flesh and relying on the sharpness of their tongues to land a customer who will pay them enough for tomorrow's lunch. 

The man Madeleine was following strolled through these blocks completely unfazed, without even shifting his path to the far side of the street to place some distance to those harassing prostitutes. Another block and then another turn, and all signs of human civilization virtually disappeared. The only sounds were the man's heavy footsteps and those of the noisy rats foraging for scraps where the light did not reach. 

The leather bag where Madeleine was carrying a couple of spared shirts and trousers was a growing discomfort. Not because of its weight, as even Madeleine’s samples were light, but because it attracted too much attention on him, identifying Madeleine as a provincial bourgeois newcomer to Paris. In theory, an easy target for pickpockets. 

Only eventually did Madeleine pause to read a street sign. He was in the middle of one of the streets Javert urged him to avoid, lost and not knowing how to retrace his steps. He had broken another promise. 

\--- 

Javert sat on his usual blue paisley chair back in Montreuil-sur-Mer in Madeleine’s private office, fully dressed in both top hat and charcoal overcoat, silently reading through the obituaries section of the weekly newsletter. He was so still and so upright that he blended into the muted furniture, perhaps as an oddly out of place statue of a large plumed bird, watchful and alert. Occasionally he set down the paper and bent low to scribble a note into a pad opened on the coffee table -- as he was doing now. 

A small pile of black ash sat mournfully at the bottom of the cold brick fireplace, noticed but ignored. 

Madeleine's portress, usually discreet and untalkative by nature, stood and observed her unexpected guest after she set down a teapot and cup next to the notepad. 

“The hour is late, and maybe you would like some food, Monsieur l'Officier?” she asked in a firm tone. 

She could not understand why the Chief of Police was there, knowing that Monsieur Madeleine was out of town. In fact if her employer had not once asked her to allow the punctual Chief of Police into the office ahead of his delayed arrival, she would have turned Javert right out the door. 

“I did not even expect to be allowed in, and certainly did not expect food service. But if you have anything I will appreciate it, Madame.” 

"Then I will come back with a bowl of soup, Monsieur." 

Javert nodded, though the efficient portress did not stay long enough to see it. After the door clicked closed, he glanced toward the fireplace and turned his head to the unoccupied red armchair next to him. Then he sank further his chin in his coat collar, burying his frown, and kept reading. 

\--- 

Madeleine looked back down from the street sign bearing the name "Rue Grenelle Saint-Honoré" and found the man again with misting eyes. Was this not exactly what he wanted? 

Freedom to roam and search for what he needed, in Paris of all places, the city where everything could be found: royalty, bourgeois, the wretched, the poor, the gangs,outrageous wealth, the deepest despair. Here, he was guaranteed to find his answer. 

\- 

Standing with his back against a brick wall, he stalked the front entrance of a bustling tavern named Cottin, into which the man disappeared a while ago. He watched as men strolled through the rustic door mostly unaccompanied, only to re-emerge in pairs, seconds apart from their newfound partners. These pairs then - discreetly - disappeared together at the end of the street. 

Madeleine swallowed to calm his frayed nerves. Then, ignoring the protests of his conscience, he walked through the door as a man climbed the steps to the guillotine. 

Without hesitation he offered a gold Louis, and in return, the head waiter of the establishment displaced the guests at the best, centrally-located table to seat him. Many heads were turned in the momentary uproar. As he sat nursing his glass of premium aged rum, a young man at the counter glanced at him through half-closed lids and sensually licked his upper lip. 

Madeleine took a sip of rum and looked away. He feigned obliviousness as signals were exchanged all around him, and new men arrived to replace those who had departed. He always considered this sort of uncommitted pairings to be repulsive, but tonight, he watched on with a horrifying envy. The clandestine intimacy these men enjoyed freely allowed them to then return to their jobs, their homes and continue to pretend. As he also must. 

Over to his right, a mustachioed, well dressed gentleman nodded at him with a smile. Madeleine grasped the chilled glass in his hand and glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, reliably telling the time: the night was already half gone. 

He sipped his rum and cupped his chin through his graying beard. Tomorrow morning he will need to board a coach back to Montreuil-sur-Mer, else he would need to stay a full extra day. His conundrum still hung around his neck, slowly tightening like a hangman's noose. He must choose now, what he wanted to be for Javert. 

Soon after, a man crossed the hall to his table and placed a hand onto the empty chair opposite to him. Madeleine looked up, saw that the man was smoking a cigarette, and downed the remainder of his glass. 

"Yes," he said. And followed the man out. 

\- 

"You may call me Dominique. Now why don't you pretend you're sociable for a moment and tell me your real name," the man said, already barefoot and in his shirtsleeves, apparently not the type to waste time. Or maybe he had a family waiting for him. 

"My name is Jean." 

They were in a small room - room F - in a nearby building of rental flats, and Madeleine locked the door securely behind him. 

"Well Jean, make yourself comfortable. After all, you paid for this room,” Dominique said while lighting another cigarette. The man with paint-stained hands - perhaps a craftsman? - sat back on the bed with a mischievous smile, as if expecting his partner to undress. 

Madeleine placed his bag onto the only chair in the room, and then his hat on top of it. He raised his hands to the buttons of his coat and shed it with determined fingers: this he hung onto the coat rack next to the door. However, when he began to do the same with his frock coat underneath, his hands shook and his fingers slipped on the cloth buttons. Dominique placed two strong hands on his shoulders and turned him to face the bed. 

"What is the matter?" Dominique, now standing, asked through his cigarette and a crooked smile. "Untalkative and also shy? Don't worry…" Long fingers, nimble, made short work of those offending buttons and then peeled the frock coat off Madeleine's powerful shoulders, their muscular forms visibly bulging under the fabric of the loose shirt. Dominique tsked appreciatively and immediately got to work on the waistcoat. 

"With arms like that, surely you could not look too bad elsewhere?" Dominique's hands roamed across Madeleine's chest and curious fingers traced the lines carved by those muscles, lighting in their wake lines of fire. 

He knew they were the burn of guilt, perhaps shame. But he made believe that it was the burn of passion - with his eyes closed this was easier - the hands were warm, the touch steady, patient. Soon after, when Dominique's hands expectedly dropped to the bottom of his shirt, about to tug the hem free of his trousers, Madeleine opened one of his hands, both balled into trembling fists, and stopped him. 

"No, Mons- Dominique," Madeleine stuttered, looking up to the taller, dark-skinned man. "I prefer to keep my shirt on." When Dominique shrugged and got rid of his own shirt, revealing a hairy, shapely torso, Madeleine unbuttoned his trousers in return. As a sign of good faith. But now his lack of arousal was clear. 

Madeleine closed his eyes again. He told himself that this could not be as morally reprehensible as those acts in the Bagne. No one here was selling their body for money or protection. What will happen will be by mutual consent, and he was here because he needed to exorcise his lust, to free himself to be a friend. He forced himself to open his eyes and lift them to look at Dominique's face, with what he hoped would seem as calm acceptance. 

Even as a hand close around him, then attempt to stroke him to hardness. Dominique cupped Madeleine’s genitals, squeezing gently, emboldened, or perhaps disappointed, by his lack of reaction. Every fiber of Madeleine body screamed to flee - he did not feel aroused, even if he was becoming erect due to the stimulation - but instead, he rested his forehead against Dominique's chest and heaved out choppy, shuddering breaths, wrapped his arms around the taller man's torso, and put up a fight against the sorrow creeping into his heart. He could not allow himself to wish that it were a different man in his arms, even if every tiny spark of passion he felt in his groin reminded him of that different man. 

Dominique stroked him faster and harder, changing the position of his hands several times. But even his worker's arms tired before Madeleine could get hard enough to proceed. The man sat back down on the bed with a disappointed shake of his head. His initial arousal had subsided and he turned away from Madeleine, reaching for the clothes strewn all over the bed. 

"Are you leaving?" 

"Well Jean, I am clearly not who you want. There is no need to force it. If I am to be home tonight I need to get back at a respectable hour." 

In this moment, a night alone on a cold bed, in a hotel room in Paris, loomed as daunting as another night banished in a _cachot_. Except this time, he would not wake to Javert refilling his water, nor would he hear Javert's metronomic footsteps patrolling in the hallway. There would simply be nothing, and now he was too wise to find comfort in hate. No matter how worthy of sympathy his situation was, he made the choice to steal and now, his only solace was in a stranger who may not have even told him his real name. 

"If you are not needed at home, I invite you to spend the night here. If this room is uncomfortable for you, I am willing to rent another." 

"I am no longer in the mood to try and find another, so yes, Jean, this room is fine." 

\- 

The closed shutters were not enough to isolate them from the sounds of the street where the last revelers wandered at will. In the pitch-black room, Madeleine lay in Dominique's loose embrace, his back warmed by the other man's chest. Unable to sleep, he glanced with unseeing eyes in the direction of the door, where his coat hung on the rack, suddenly wanting to reach for the book he knew was safe in the pocket. 

He drew a finger in the sign of the cross then placed a fist over his heart, careful not to disturb the sleeping man. He knew it was blasphemous to pray while laying in sin, but still he confessed to God as if he were kneeling before the altar, gazing at the Cross. 

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," he admitted in the darkness, "I am a sinner and I was never chaste. Tomorrow I will return to Montreuil-sur-Mer because the only man I want is there. And with your blessing, he will still be waiting for me. Thy will be done. Amen." 


	47. Desire

“Welcome back, Monsieur le Maire," Javert said. "I have come to report that nothing had happened in your absence.” 

Monsieur Madeleine, slightly disheveled and with dark bags under his eyes, gaped back at him from behind the half-open door. "Ah, Monsieur, yes," the maire said with an expression of bewilderment on his face, before belatedly stepping aside and gesturing for Javert to enter. 

This was a jarring change from the unfailingly warm welcome Javert had come to expect from his friend. He took off his hat, shook off a small flurry of snowflakes onto the hallway, and then struck the floor with the heels of his boots a few times each to knock off more snow before stepping inside as asked. 

"It must be… snowing heavily outside." Madeleine ran a shaking hand through his slightly messy hair and leaned a bit to the side to gaze through the window behind his guest. "Give me your coat, Monsieur, I will start a fire and have my portress bring up a cup of tea…" There was concern in Madeleine’s voice and face; an expression that was more familiar to Javert than the shock with which he had been received. 

"Monsieur le Maire, wait," Javert said. And even after Madeleine turned back to face him after securing the door, the maire's eyes seemed to dart about glancing everywhere and at everything, instead of meeting his gaze. " _Non_ , Monsieur le Maire. You appear tired and inconvenienced by my visit. I apo-" 

Something he said seemed to have startled Madeleine into focus. "No, Monsieur l'Officier," the maire denied hurriedly, shaking his head. "I will not allow you to stand at the door in your drenched coat. It will only take a few minutes to start the fire." 

It was a clear order and Javert's right hand obeyed instinctively, fingers grasping the top button before he glanced down to locate it. The wet button was slippery against his uncomfortably clinging gloves. His discomfort grew as he worked, because his greatcoat was slowly dripping an unsightly puddle of dirty water right in the doorway of Madeleine's office. 

He could see out of his peripheral vision that the maire stood frozen in place, perhaps having changed his mind about the fire after all. In truth, he preferred this, and when the maire hurried him along by finishing the bottom buttons for him, he shrugged off the heavy greatcoat and handed it to Madeleine with his top hat, somewhat embarrassed. 

Madeleine stood with the quite heavy coat sagging from his forearm for a moment,apparently little aware that the garment was soaking his jacket, his pants and dripping profusely on his shoes.He seemed to be wondering where to put it, and to not reach the correct answer. Suddenly he looked down at his feet and turned to the door to hang the coat across two hooks. Alarmed by his erratic behavior, Javert said, "I did not mean to interrupt your rest." 

He tried to remember ever seeing the maire so distracted before and his mind drew a blank. Not the maire, the businessman, or even the convict whose memory invaded every interaction with his friend ever acted this way. Madeleine had turned back to face him and gazed into his chest with such fixation that Javert glanced down to check if something was wrong with his uniform. Yet everything looked normal. 

"You did not interrupt anything, Monsieur," Madeleine said in a faraway voice which suggested that his mind may only be partially in the present. "I just did not expect you to come so soon. And you really did not need to come in this weather just to let me know everything is fine." 

"I know these trips to Paris can be grueling especially if there are young children traveling in the same coach and you, Monsieur le Maire, probably did not travel first class even though you could easily afford it." He paused for a moment to allow for a rebuttal, but Madeleine remained culpably silent. "I thought hearing that you are not urgently needed at the mairie would allow you to restmore well." 

"Yes it does." 

"I also came to report that the edition of the weekly drivel you missed showed no improvement. There were only two announcements, which I copied down for you." As he spoke, he removed his gloves and opened the two buttons on his uniform jacket and reached in, to retrieve the small piece of notepaper kept safely dry in his inner pocket. The paper felt warm and soft on his stiff fingers, from the humidity of his sweat and his body heat. He placed it into Madeleine's hand. 

The maire unfolded the note with trembling hands and narrowed his eyes at it for quite some seconds, then tucked it into his coat pocket. " _Merci,_ You did not need to do this, Monsieur l'Officier…" Madeleine whispered, his voice modulated by something which Javert could not place. But before he could ask the right question, he gasped as the entirety of Madeleine collided into his torso: the man had embraced him with vehemence enough to knock him back a step. 

"Monsieur le Maire?" Even through the thick layer of wool, Javert could feel the entire body of the shorter man shaking. What was wrong? He had not the faintest idea. He could remember when the maire became feverish, the man's cheeks were flushed and his forehead was covered with sweat; now his eyes were red, but his face was gaunt and pale. "Did something happen while you were in Paris? Did you witness a murder?" Javert asked, horribly undecided about whether to push Madeleine away, just so he can take a better look at his friend's face. 

A chuckle burst out of Madeleine. "No. That did not happen, Javert." This was Javert's best guess at what was said, because the words were spoken into his chest, and he could feel the heaving hot, sultry breaths right through the coarse wool with every word. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the Maire was feverish and sought warmth in him, a man who always felt cold. Madeleine's hands pressed into the muscles of his back with a brutish force most other men would not expect out of one who, by all appearances, was in danger of collapse. But Javert had spent more than enough time in the police to know that often, a person was only as strong as they were desperate. 

"Whatever the problem is, it has a solution." His supposed words of comfort sound odd even to his own ears, and he wished that he had the foresight to bring Vasseur along. Vasseur was always the one who knew how to handle the emotional victims; in fact, basically any other policeman in the town would have a better idea. 

Tufts of rough corduroy crushed beneath his palms as he pressed his hands onto Madeleine's back. There was a time when he would allow his own arms to dangle uselessly at his sides, but this time he could do a little better. The man in his arms warmed him and he forgot momentarily that the he was standing in an unheated room without the protection of his coat. And he was transported by a child-like wonder that it was possible for something in this world to be both uncomfortable and indescribably comforting at the same time, like the crushing pressure he felt around his torso. 

He had been forthright to the maire and admitted that he saw in him the memories of a different man. But now he felt a different man while his mind imagined even a third man: the man Jeanne always said her brother used to be. A man he wished was real, and whom perhaps he still wished could have emerged from the gates of Toulon. Yet the only real man, his friend, deserved more than the insincere comfort offered by someone who dreamt of someone else. 

"I am not practiced at giving hugs, Monsieur le Maire," he said, trying to sound soothing but doing a poor job of it. "Before this I have only been hugged by a convict. Does that make you think less of me as a policeman?" 

Madeleine became deathly silent. 

When the pressure of the hand rubbing up and down his back suddenly disappeared, Javert was dismayed that the hug was over but nevertheless began to step back. And the moment Madeleine unburied his face and looked up, Javert saw glistening, bloodshot eyes staring up at him, wild and barely restrained: the stare of a frightened man confronting his sentence. He also saw that the front of his uniform was wet in two small circular patches, where the fabric had been darkened to near black by tears. 

So in the next moment when he felt that hand reappear on the base of his skull, and behind it almost Madeleine's entire bodyweight pulling his head down, he was not only in between steps but also was too absorbed gazing down into Madeleine's eyes. He felt himself fall precariously forward, as the maire's face approached in a dangerous collision course. If he had not been so distracted, by his own eyes watering for no reason and by the explosion of emptiness he felt in his stomach, the reflexive, muscular, trained-over-decades part of his brain would have sounded alarm bells. Because this was the only way a man shorter than he - and most of them were - to render him unconscious with a head butt. It had happened before. Madeleine had somehow stunned him into inaction. 

When Madeleine's burning lips landed on his own, his hands were flapping, grasping the cold air for something to steady himself with. And without conscious thought he tried to back away, to extract himself without falling on top of the maire. His eye saw nothing but Madeleine's face, his body was in a state of panic from the aggression, yet the palms of his hands landed on both sides of Madeleine's torso, where the ribs were expanding and contracting with each stuttering breath. Even he could not tell whether he was simply holding onto the only solid object within reach for help, or trying to push the man away. 

"Wha.." he tried to ask the roaming pair of lips, but that did not help because he was not even able to finish the first word before Madeleine's lips pushed into the gap and their teeth clanged. Something hot, wet, and foreign pried between his teeth and the sensations became dizzying. 

Although at first he felt an open revulsion, there was something reassuring about Madeleine’s tentative movements, how the tongue caressed the flesh of his lips and nudged at his teeth, urging him to grant free access. His mind was soon lost in search of a wounded and imprisoned man, whom he imagined more patient. Now, as it was then, he could believe that he, Javert, not the guard or the inspector but the man, could be valued by another. And in the light of this little bit of fantasy any unpleasantness to the embrace melted away into insignificance. But it was as if a mighty floodgate had been unlocked in his mind and with one memory came another, then another, and yet another. The last time he allowed himself to be carried away it ended in disappointment and grief. He did not keep enough of himself from the first time to go through it a second time. The tension between his thighs caught him unawares, as a painful reminder that his body had its own free will. 

He did not want to bite down and feared to open his mouth any wider, even if to speak. A flash of pain across both of his calves made him flinch. He had blindly backed into a piece of furniture, but Madeleine, who was still moving forward, sent him sitting heavily backwards into a cushioned seat. It's legs made a horrible screech as their combined weight sent the chair skidding across the floor boards and into the wall. Through all of this Madeleine had followed him tighter than a shadow, without so much as a pause. He could not tell whether the man had completely lost his mind. 

Javert's hands, with which he had reached backwards to break his fall, were both on the chair and now had been pinned in place by Madeleine's hands. They would not budge at all despite him mustering all his strength to break them free, and it was both terrifying and humiliating that the other man did not even look strained by the effort. 

The man was still pushing closer, doggedly, not just the lips and the tongue but the chest, even the legs: Madeleine was climbing onto the seat with one knee, sinking it into the gap between his legs and then forced it in against his groin. When he lifted his hip to escape the knee, the entire thigh pushed in and nudged at him in a too fast rhythm, rubbing and pressing. His trousers seemed to shrink and roughen as his blood rushed toward the stimulus, his body eager for more contact. More and more of his will was required just to stop his hips from matching the motion, to tilt just a little bit to direct the pressure to the neglected parts desperate to be touched. If there were any hope before of the maire coming to his senses, it was gone the moment this arousal reared its head. 

He struggled to take in air through the mustache blocking his nostrils and the world spun in his head. He tried to clear away the offending facial hair and suddenly remembered he was completely powerless to escape. His heart pounded in his ears. What memories he had of the care of the convict in one _cachot_ turned into memories of the horror and anger in the _cachot_ just across a tiny hallway. 

Rough, thick cords strong enough to tie down ships, cut into his wrists. He kicked his legs and could no longer tell whether his boots were stopped by the floor or a stone wall. He heard the laughter of his fellow guards, and he asked himself how many hits he could endure this time before he lost the strength to fight back. He kicked against the ground trying to flip the entire chair down on its side, and when that did not work, bucked his hips hard against the knee and screamed in pain into the mouth, "Stop!! Stop!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madeleine is a very strong man... what if he used his cart-flipping strength in other ways...?


	48. Effort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our apologies that this took three weeks, but hopefully it will be obvious why by the time you finish reading.  
> WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT.

"Dhrummphh!"

All Madeleine heard was an unintelligible scream, muffled by tongues and flesh and bone, all he felt was a gush of air into his mouth. But it was more than enough for him to know he had done something wrong. The enthusiasm that had been impulsive and natural just a heartbeat before, evaporated. And then he was falling backwards, pushed out of the way by a Javert who was rising out of the armchair. In that short, yet infinitely drawn-out half-second before he hit the floor, he glimpsed white grip marks in the backs of Javert's large hands, and curved welts where nails carved into the skin. The floor was dented and scratched by the legs of the armchair. It was not the first time in his life when joy had turned to fear and regret in an instant. No one was better placed than him to know that in this world there was no such thing as a second chance, and somehow, without even thinking, he had used up his first chance with Javert.

The policeman strided right over him with those long legs and was now over by the door. For a moment the reality before his eyes was reduced to a series of unavoidable catastrophes and he watched helplessly, his breath tight in his lungs, because he could not imagine any other thing happening than to see Javert unlock the door and leave, perhaps forever. But Madeleine was happily proven wrong: Javert only gripped the doorknob in one hand and, instead of trying to unlock the door, pointed his combat cane at Madeleine in a defensive posture while he panted, his face flushed and his lips faintly swollen. It was an odd confrontation.

"Did I hurt you?" Madeleine asked, his voice rough, faltering, and his tone forced because he knew he needed desperately to communicate. Yet this effort was not enough to get a response out of Javert. The policeman's blue-gray eyes, framed by redden eyelids, gazed back at him on heightened alert, and after he climbed onto his knees to face Javert, he felt compelled to show his open palms to demonstrate his non-aggression instead of using them to help himself back on his feet.

Even then, Javert seemed more than confused by his gesture than reassured by it. A frown appeared on the policeman's face, the exact one which Madeleine was so accustomed to that he thought it endearing. As if to support this odd emotion, Javert relaxed the arm holding the cane and if Madeleine's eyes were not tricking him, loosened the hand on the doorknob too. But then Javert finally spoke and asked an inexplicable question. "Are you expecting a letter of resignation tomorrow?"

Madeleine's first instinct was to doubt his own hearing. The simple fact that Javert would still speak to him released his mind from its state of stupor, yet his mind only rudely reminded him that in the formulaic life he built for himself he held the respectable office of town maire, and what he just did must have violated this respectability. "Me?" he asked without hesitation, "To resign as maire?" Truly he would have little trouble composing such a letter, but what he did not mind seemed to horrify the man in front of him. _"Non!"_ Javert declared, forcefully. "From me, to resign as chief inspector."

Incomprehension made Madeleine clench his jaw and draw his brows as he watched Javert. The taller man was smoothing his hands impatiently over all the creases and folds pressed into his uniform, but it did little to improve his presentability because all it accomplished was to attract more attention to the obvious tent on the front of his trousers. This suggestive sight made Madeleine feel again the urgent pressure in his own groin, which had been momentarily overshadowed by his sense of helplessness and fear. Did Javert not consent to his touches, his kisses? Or was he guilty of the same misunderstanding as Javert was now, because Javert was clearly misconstruing his inability to respond as a tacit agreement that, yes, he felt it was appropriate to take away Javert's livelihood for something which was decidedly not Javert's fault?

"Listen to me!" Madeleine said, raising his voice when Javert looked about to shrug on the soggy, dripping coat. "What just happened had nothing to do with your position."

The silence pounded in Madeleine's heart as Javert appeared deep in thought. "Then you did not hurt me," the policeman said. "And if you are finished with me, Monsieur le Maire, I must walk my condition away on a patrol."

"Your condition?" Madeleine did not expect to receive the benefit of a clarification and yet Javert's hand, which was still trying to smooth out the creases, sharply gestured down at the almost obscene arousal in response. Madeleine nearly laughed for the absurdity of the situation. The only condition he could imagine Javert suffering, should his chief inspector leave the shelter of the building and go on a patrol through the snowstorm, would be hyperthermia -- that wet coat, frozen on that tall and broad back, trapping the man in a layer of ice until loss of consciousness, until death. Javert would become a dead man, no longer capable of frowning or speaking. And then how unimaginably bleak would the rest of his life be, to walk to the mairie every morning weighed down by the knowledge that not only will he have no more meetings with Javert to look forward to, but also that he alone was responsible for this? An involuntary shudder steeled his resolve and he spoke. "You cannot leave now, Javert. Tell me, if I did not hurt you, what did I do?"

A part of his mind still clung desperately to the handwritten words in the little book Javert loaned him. It was not long ago that he discovered in them a young guard's innocent, almost naive pledge of affection for a convict he had rescued in Toulon. What could Javert have seen in 24601, that convict, that beast entirely stripped of all human condition, that Javert could no longer see in Madeleine: maire, bourgeois, pieous church-goer? In what way was that wretch 24601 worthy and Madeleine not? It could not be a matter of his feelings because though his name changed, those feelings never did.

"Did you not like it?" he asked, jabbing a finger in the direction of that proof of arousal which Javert had hidden behind the coat. “Did you not want it -- like I did?" He blinked away the sudden sting in his eyes. A single sentence, this simple admission made him feel as defenseless as the starving tree pruner he once was.

Indeed, few acts in this world require more courage than exposing oneself to bitter disappointment. But it was also true that sometimes, a leap of faith was all it took to reveal a path. And now, without the slightest clue as to what was going through Madeleine's head, Javert declared in his authoritative tone, as if stating a code of law, "I will not be forced into anything, even if my body liked it."

The words were rushed, as if the man finally felt safe enough to express what was consuming him. Or perhaps it was the sign of a man trying to regain control of a situation he had never experienced. Madeleine did not care. His mind could barely parse the admission, which truly spoke volumes, for the most important points.

"I did not mean to use force," Madeleine said, slowly getting to his feet. "I thought because your body was responding to me, that you wanted it to continue."

Javert looked back at him intently and then humphed. "And it is my duty to remind you that it is illegal to coerce someone by force, even if what you intend to do is legal and even if you are the maire." When the policeman then nodded his head in a characteristic gesture, Madeleine knew the situation had been defused.

Madeleine shook his head to show his lack of understanding. "What did I intend?" he asked.

Javert frowned again and lowered his eyes to the ground with a hesitancy which pained Madeleine. Then the policeman responded with a curt single word: "Sodomy." He never was one to be tactful in his choice of words and this was no exception.

Horror and indignation made Madeleine clench his fists. Rashly, he opened his mouth to speak but could not enunciate any words, only exhale all the air from his lungs in a violent burst. A most unwelcome self-awareness compelled him to look down at his own trousers, against which his erection was still straining visibly. Then it all became clear to him -- why would Javert not arrive at this conclusion? He would have also, should their places have been reversed. "No, I was not about to force that on you," he said quickly, because how could affection be taken by force? It was an idea so ludicrous it was not even worth mentioning. At the same time he could see that though it was clear Javert shared his abhorrence for the kind of perverted, lust-driven sex which was all too prevalent in Toulon, it was possible, if not likely, for Javert to have experienced more satisfying sexual encounters throughout his life. Variants of sexual encounters which did not involve submission or suffering, but instead forms of pleasure which he, Madeleine, could not even imagine. Yet none of this mattered if Javert did not understand how he felt. "That was not what I intended, unless… unless you wanted to sodomize me." The burn on his ears was now excruciating.

“How could someone you've pinned down sodomize you?” asked a visibly frustrated Javert in response, and Madeleine surprised himself thinking how much more this irritable Javert, as opposed to the version who had been avoiding eye contact, resembled the man he liked. One thought led to another and suddenly he felt again the twitch of Javert’s arousal against his thigh. Words left his mouth before they reached his brain: “If I allowed you to move, you would sodomize me?”

Javert nearly dropped his cane in horror. " _Non!_ " he retorted.

The two men watched each other in silence. Neither one had known in their lives thus far the pleasures of the flesh, and neither one had any way to know this of the other, though Madeleine was beginning to sense it. Looking into Javert's eyes, Madeleine walked up to the taller man slowly but surely. There was no way to express in words the joy he felt because Javert decided to stay in his office despite his initial mistake, and so he said quietly, "Then there would not have been any sodomy.”

Javert nodded as if satisfied with his words. Then, the policeman asked, “What did you intend to do?”

Madeleine felt his eyes fill with tears. It was all impulse. There was no plan. If he confessed that he did not expect anything, but was willing to accept either of the things he had imagined for years, would this be understandable to Javert? "I would have asked you to my room, to stay for the night and to share my bed," he said, and watched in awe as Javert gently leaned his cane back against the door frame before taking a step closer to him.

A hardened man like Chief Inspector Javert, never exposed to affection, could not be capable of tenderness. But that does not mean he could not feel distress and feel responsible for other's distress. And now, Javert looked down at him and asked, "Why were you crying when you hugged me?"

"My trip to Paris was very difficult," Madeleine said sadly, after some hesitation.

"Difficult in what way?

"I met a man who showed me what you mean to me."

An expression of bewilderment overtook Javert's face and clouded the policeman's eyes. For breath-taking moment Madeleine could believe that this was just another one of their routine encounters because Javert remained so calm and so still, until he saw the taller man's Adam's apple bob behind the stiff collar. Madeleine instinctively mimicked the movement and felt his mouth go dry as a wave of anticipation and real fear washed over him.

"Am I more than the chief inspector to you?" Javert asked.

At a loss for words, Madeleine simply spread his arms wide and stepped resolutely into a hug, firmly planting his hands onto the policeman's back. There, he nodded his head vehemently in a way which was impossible to be misunderstood. And yet his attention was drawn to a worrying persistent tremor he felt in the body he held in his arms; any normal person shivering to that extent would would have admitted they were cold. Only then did he recall the presence of the dripping coat, and only then did he step back and see that he had in fact hugged that coat between them, almost wringing it out onto Javert's right pant-leg, which was soaked through in streaks. The right sleeve, where the coat had been resting, fared even worse: it was entirely soaked through.

"Don't you see that you can't walk outside like this? Stay and we will get your clothes dry by a fire." It was with a great pain in his heart that he leaned back enough to look up at Javert's face, fearful of what he would find there. What he saw were those blue-gray eyes gazing down at him, intently focused, as if in disbelief of what they had found.

Javert shifted his feet a little so he could hold the coat out of the way. "If you still wanted me to share your bed, we should go to your room and have the fire there," the chief inspector said. The tone was commanding and tense, but to Madeleine's willful ears it sounded normal and accepting.

The maire had to stop himself smiling just to respond. "Yes, of course. That is the sensible thing to do, ah…" he said, reaching blindly into pocket for his keys while still looking up at Javert. "I must get the keys to my room, please wait for me, it will only take a minute."

-

The hallway and the concierge desk were as empty as expected at this late hour. Madeleine strained his limp foot to complete his task quickly, tortured by an irrational fear that he would return to find that Javert had a change of heart during his absence. He stalled at his office door for a long breath before pushing it open, and found Javert just standing there in the middle of the room, still holding that dripping coat, ready to go. Waiting for him.

Without trying to, Monsieur Madeleine smiled.

He led the way up the narrow staircase, when the deafening sound of his own heartbeat drowned out all other sound, including the footsteps of the man behind him. So he kept looking over his shoulder to the policeman, for the first time in his life because he wanted to make sure he was being followed. More than once he caught himself staring too long - for a man dragging a foot up the stairs, no less - yet he was amazed by the poise of Javert's movements. Men that size often lacked grace, but that was never the case with Javert, and this was a very inopportune moment to remember it. And the maire’s cheeks burst into flame once more, only this time, the ravaging fire spread down to his neck and then his torso; suddenly, winter was forgotten.

His room radiated the chill of uninhabited places and smelled faintly of mold. With shaking hands, Madeleine set his lamp on the dining table and immediately gathered his blanket of coarse wool from atop his bed. When he turned to hand this to Javert, he found that the policeman's eyes fixed on his mantle, where his antique silver candlesticks were prominently displayed in the otherwise barren room. He swallowed and, with bittersweet emotion, volunteered an explanation. "They were a gift from an old friend," he said. And then he placed the blanket into Javert's hands and said, "Make yourself comfortable, take your wet clothes off and keep yourself warm."

" _Merci,_ Monsieur le Maire."

He did not know what to say in response so he smiled again, and went to tend to the fireplace. Clothing rustled behind him as he worked, almost making it impossible for him to focus on his task of adding firewood into the small flame, but he wanted to be the best host he could be so he continued patiently, making the fire larger than he would have made it on any other night. Eventually a sharp clack immediately to his left made him turn his head, and he saw that Javert had set one of his dining chairs up to the blazing heat and was arranging his uniform onto it - jacket draped on the back and trousers hung across the seat.

When Javert, wearing the blanket around his shoulders, finished and turned to Madeleine, Madeleine glanced at the pair of bare legs, full of lean muscle doubtlessly from all the patrolling they had done, and felt a twinge in his groin. He put down the hot poker and rose to his feet. "Do you sleep wearing your collar?" he asked, pointing vaguely at his own cravat. "Non," Javert replied. And while Javert unbuckled his collar, Madeleine shed his jacket, cravat, and trousers.

Now Madeleine could not help but allow his eyes to wander down the gap between the two halves of the hanging blanket, where a small sliver of skin showed through the chest opening of Javert's shirt. From there, they were drawn involuntarily downwards to Javert's crotch, curious to see that body part which minutes ago he felt scorching hot through two layers of thick trousers. The shirt covered to mid-thigh but its worn and thin linen fabric draped nicely the entire way, following the contours of the body. Madeleine's eyes went wide just for a moment then, when he saw the length of what was underneath, though somewhere in his head he remembered how the young man once unashamedly claimed this to be the case.

He felt Javert's eyes on him, and paradoxically, this only made it even harder to meet the other man's eyes, yet he managed. "You are quite large," he said, without finding better words. And when the taller man nodded solemnly in response, Madeleine chuckled thinking that this man could make him forget sadness. He resumed their hug exactly where it left off, and marveled at how much difference one fewer layer of clothing made.

He felt the heat of Javert's legs against his own, and the heat of the taller man's chest against his face when he worked his lips through the front opening of Javert’s shirt and kissed, tasted what he found there. When the man in his arms breathed out a sigh he felt the quake which pulsed through the chest not only with his lips, but also in his groin.

Wordlessly, he led Javert to his bed, allowing his guest to go in first before lying down also. While watching with a smile as Javert arranged the blanket evenly over both of them, he remembered the cross on the headboard, and he thought how, even just to share a bed with Javert like this-- As Javert's hand smoothed the blanket over his shoulder, he caught it in his own and closed squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath expecting some sign, some retribution, but nothing happened. When he opened his eyes to find Javert watching him with an expression of concern, he understood that God had granted him what his fellow men never did -- a withholding of judgment, an opportunity for him to prove himself through his actions. In this case, to prove that his was love and not only lust.

Madeleine turned and climbed to an elbow so he could face Javert, who was on his back but whose head was turned to watch him. It was as if the cover of the blanket eased his sense of embarrassment and he placed his hand first on the crook of Javert's arm, then the ribs, then the chest. He rubbed through the linen and felt the contours of the muscles through the shirt. While listening to the heartbeat under his palm, he watched Javert's face and saw how his chief inspector had, even in the current situation, that demeanor of a man humbly waiting for instructions, so perfect for the man's chosen profession. In it was a distinct lack of shame, and Madeleine - Jean Valjean - loved him for his confidence that what they were doing was not wrong, that it was perfectly natural, that only a crazy man would think they could be better off doing something else.

When he felt the firm pressure of Javert's hands through his waistcoat, he caught himself reflexively rubbing his lame right foot against the sheets, in an attempt to make sure his stocking covered the scar on his ankle. Guilt and fear welled in his chest, but something else also, and the image before his eyes blurred as he leaned down to place a chaste kiss onto Javert's lips. When those lips parted, it was a door which opened for him, freeing a part of him which remained youthful and unmarked. He felt Javert's steamy breaths on his face. His hand stroked the chest harder and soon he was straddling atop Javert, freeing his other hand to join in the action, sliding into the shirt, feeling the smooth skin, the way the muscles flexed as Javert breathed, the way Javert's body trembled in response to the touch. The man beneath him felt almost as hot as he himself felt, and beneath the calloused skin of his palm he felt a dampness which he knew to be sweat, but could not distinguish whether it came from Javert or himself. When he pulled away from the kiss briefly to inhale, the scent was a dizzying mix of leather, left from Javert's collar, of sweat, of soap, and of the other man's saliva. Suddenly he was emboldened to shift his legs and press his lower body into the other man, who seemed tense and - though the word simply did not apply to the chief inspector - nervous. Only small tremors and the pressure of Javert’s arousal betrayed the fact that the sensation was pleasurable. Javert, squirming and gasping uneven breaths, held tighter and tighter onto him without actually pulling him close, and Madeleine tried to slow down, to sooth and calm.

But even the man thought by half the town to be celibate could not stop now. Madeleine's hips and legs - his entire lower body - continued to grind and undulate out of his control. The hems of their shirts were getting rolled up higher and higher. Madeleine felt with each thrust Javert's rocklike firm erection strain uncomfortably against his own. "This is becoming uncomfortable," he explained, pushing himself up onto his palms, "May I…?" When Javert, who seemed half dazed, nodded in consent, he slid a hand between their bodies and worked Javert's shirt up over the policeman's erection. And when he unintentionally brushed into the scotching piece of flesh with his hand, the low growl he heard from Javert, deep as if it emanated from far inside Javert's cavernous chest, so surprised him that he closed his hand around the touch-starved arousal and gave it a single firm stroke. Then he heard the sound again, but this time it lingered and it trembled just like the unsatiated body from which it came.

Madeleine hurriedly unbuttoned his waistcoat and rolled up his shirt up to his armpits, baring as much of his unblemished chest as possible, and lowered himself back down. The sensation of skin and, above all, of Javert beginning to writhe and to buck, dizzied him. His mind went blank and impulse took over as he kissed and thrust against the body, until he heard the quick and shallow breaths begin to sound like wheezing. Instinctively he slipped his hands under Javert's back and rolled them over until their body positions were flipped, with Javert now on the top. The blanket became tangled around their legs and partially pinned under his body, but Madeleine was able to use his strength to lift them both and free it, then spread it over Javert. But inevitably it did not take more than a few seconds for them to adjust to their new position and for their movements to become frantic once more, and the more Madeleine tried to thrust his hips upwards into Javert, the faster he made the blanket slither down Javert's back and pool around their legs once more -- but he could no longer be bothered by it. He thrust harder and harder, trying to find more contact with that sweat-slicked skin, and trying to provide the same to the man who was trembling and becoming increasingly limp.

He dug his heels into the mattress and bucked, until one particularly powerful thrust caused Javert's weight to disappear -- his fingers instinctively closed into the worn linen shirt fabric even as he felt himself tumble off the bed. It was only after a painful crash onto the ground that his mind clearly conceptualized what happened: they were already precariously close to the edge of the bed to begin with and he had launched Javert off of his bed. Nervously he checked to make sure Javert was not injured, and then he laughed out loud because he could not remember anything more funny than this, nor could he remember many times when Javert smiled in the way he did now, certainly amused by their combined clumsiness. He knew in the back of his head that all of his neighbors must have heard the crash, maybe even everyone in the entire building. Perhaps they heard the sounds they were making, heard the rhythmic squeaks from his bed, the thumps of the headboard into the wall. But his hands sought, and found, a secure hold on Javert, the only thing in the world which mattered now.

The varnished wood floor felt uncomfortable and icy on his exposed skin, yet Javert's arms encircled him in a way which communicated that the policeman was no more interested in climbing back up onto the bed than he. So they continued on the ground, both so clueless and inexperienced in their ministrations that and if someone were to walk in they would think the two were wrestling. He tried to put pressure in the places that made Javert buck in sensation, and to rub in the ways that made Javert growl into their kiss. He could not tell whether they were words, but he could imagine, in time, they would do this again and then that sound would be an attempt to speak his name. His real name, Jean. Then his mind become void of thoughts, silent as if a sudden deafness hit him taking away the tension his body could no longer contain. A final stuttering thrust and Javert shuddered over his body, tensing and then, after a few convulsive jerks of the hips, falling completely limp.

It was clearly over but still, Madeleine was reluctant to let go. He allowed his silva-moistened lips wander the dark skin which glistened in the light of the oil lamp, the rosy flush all over it a visual proof of what had just happened between them. His tongue darted out to savor the saltiness of the sweat just where the throat bobbed with each harsh, exhausted gasp. He could feel Javert's sultry breaths hit his temple, the wet stickiness between their stomachs, and he was even aware of the pressure of a one of Javert's stiffened nipples protruding into his upper chest each time they breathed. His whole body remain a bundle of sensitized nerves thirsty for more contact even as his still throbbing erection withered.

Far too soon, the policeman pushed himself up with shaking arms into a sitting position, leaving Madeleine feeling terribly exposed and naked. With a soft sigh Madeleine rose on unsteady legs, his waistcoat and shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin. “I will get a washcloth,” he said, impulsively reaching to brush away an errant strand of dark brown hair which was blocking Javert's half-closed eyes.

Madeleine wiped himself off quickly with icy water, and hid between the open doors of his closet to change into his nightgown. The grimness of his reality returned to him full force as he felt his own back through the cheap and threadbare cloth: it may be enough to hide the grisly sight of his welted back from Javert's eyes, but it would do nothing to mask the ridges of tough, scarred flesh from Javert's sense of touch. He searched through his wardrobe for his newest shirt, one with fabric which was least worn from use, and slipped it on as a second layer, refusing to fear that two may still not be enough.

When he stepped out from his closet he found the policeman still slumped against the side of the bed, only having managed to get out of the sweat-soaked undershirt and huddle under the blanket for warmth in the meantime. Something about the sight stirred an overwhelming protective instinct in Madeleine's heart, so powerful that it incited him to move quickly despite the crushing fatigue which had settled into his bones.

He headed towards the garment thrown to the ground, and was about to put it to dry together with the rest of the uniform when he saw the tear down its front and the nearly detached sleeve. "This is beyond repair," he said shaking his head as he started back to his closet. “Would you allow me to replace it?" Javert's nod came when he was already holding the loosest shirt in his possession, intended for Javert to change into.

His return to Javert's side was greeted by a grumbled "How do you still have the strength to carry water?", to which he smiled in response. The policeman was seemingly absorbed gazing at his own outstretched palm, with which he had mopped up the worst of the fluids spattered onto his midsection, and which now was gleaming with the wetness. Madeleine knelt and did what was natural to him, he took the large, dark-skinned hand and wiped the damp washcloth across the palm. When Javert instinctively tried to pull away, the maire was adamant. Carried away by the dazed look in the policeman's eyes, Madeleine leaned forward and placed a reassuring kiss by Javert’s mouth, momentarily overcoming the latter's resistance. But this only turned into yet another moment which did not go as plan this night, as he was sharply reminded of that something terribly intoxicating in Javert’s skin which made clear that one kiss was not - would never be - enough. He struggled to focus on the icy cloth he was wiping across Javert's torso as he planted a string of yearning kisses along the flushed neck -- the man was hissing softly through clenched teeth -- but it was in vain.

With his free hand he peeled back the folds of the rough blanket and drew fingers across the contours slowly becoming familiar, dazzled by the vivid contrast between the vibrantly flushed dark skin and the paleness of his own. He sought tirelessly for something he could not define until it suddenly struck him that there was a distinct lack of scars on that torso. And then he could not help but reminisce to the arrest his chief inspector made at the market, how the policeman walked up to a knife-wielding criminal without fear. "I expected you to have scars," he said softly, so as not to completely destroy the intimate silence between them.

”Law-breakers have never injured me," Javert responded somewhat testily, as if the mere suggestion of this possibility was an offense to his honor.

Madeleine fell silent once more, unable to decide whether what Javert believed to be invincibility was in fact an ingrained recklessness, but nonetheless wishing wholeheartedly that Javert could continue to believe this for the rest of his life. Shaking his head, Madeleine smoothed the cloth along the lines of sparse hair which led down to Javert’s crotch, all the while searching Javert's eyes for some sign that him should stop. The only thing he saw was how those blue-gray eyes clouded while the muscles beneath his hand tensed in anticipation, as if desire could return even though the flesh was too sensitive.

He threw the cloth aside and slid the tips of his fingers onto the now flaccid length, and when Javert growled much the same way as before, he heard clearly that there was no pain in that sound, only a stunned pleasure which Madeleine wished to claim as his own. He covered Javert's lips with his own as he repeated the gesture of his hand, then greedily swallowed the raw cry and stuttered breaths. Perhaps he should blame that greed for the strange idea which crossed his mind; before he could process the thought he had already dropped to one hand and lowered his face most of the way between the thighs of a horrified Javert, trying to lay his lips on the length which had begun to stir feebly.

"It will only be a kiss," he muttered stroking the hand that squeezed his shoulder. "Just one kiss ..." But he knew he had just lied. The very vocal reaction he received was maddening, addictive; after the second kiss his own crotch began to strain wearily and with the third, which he deposited on the underside of the shaft beginning to swell with blood, came the unrelenting desire to taste with his tongue. He expected resistance but when he looked up, he could see that Javert's head was arched far back onto the bed, as if asking to stop was the last thing imaginable. Without anymore hesitation he closed his hand around the engorged member and licked up some of the murky fluids coating the tip - it was an intriguing mix of salty and bitter - while he reveled in the pressure the smooth of the soft flesh against his face. Here, on this part of the man, the scent was not contaminated by that of leather; even the smell of soap had worn off and Madeleine knew the scent entering his nostrils was that of Javert. Soon the need in his own groin was too much and, only faintly surprised how effortlessly he had regained his arousal, he used one hand to work himself while he continued exploring with his tongue and lips.

His sense of time faded away and when the inevitable happened, first for Javert but very soon after for him, he was so disoriented that he could not remember for a moment why there was already a bucket of water right next to him. This time he cleaned quickly, and then lifted the nearly unconscious Javert up onto the bed before going to check the fire and light one of his candles before blowing out the lamp.

He had gone to sleep this exhausted in a long time. Perhaps never since Toulon. But this was a good kind of tiredness and he bundled the policeman in the blanket before draping an arm around the entire thing. He had taken the liberty of positioning Javert to lay on one side, facing away, and now he hugged the man securely from behind in a way that made it virtually impossible for his back to be touched. "Javert," he said into the other man's long hair, "Did you like it?"

He had not expected a response but the other man shifted and muttered back incoherently, "Merci… I did not know to produce sons… Captain Thierry would have said it should go into a wife." When Madeleine smiled and urged the man to go to sleep, the head against his cheeks nodded weakly before another muttered response, this time perfectly coherent: "No choice…" And then, nothing more but the gentle sound of slow, deep breaths.

The older man marveled at this peace between them, two men who, on a different day, could easily be bitter enemies. He closed his eyes. He had come to the realization that the man he held in his arms would likely require the rest of his life to understand -- but he is willing to do it.

\---

 

He heard the familiar crow of roosters from Gallet property down the street. It blared again and again in the distance, and belatedly his mind woke from its deep slumber to realize that it had not been roused by a nightmare, nor intolerable pain in his back, that this was how normal people began their days. The sun was rising.

There was a faint rustle of clothes behind him and he instinctively flexed his arm. Something had gone missing from under it. Vivid images reached his mind, the kind from which many of his recent dreams were made, but the feel, the warmth were still clinging to his skin. He opened his eyes wide and turned to the sounds, just in time to see Javert carefully tucking the borrowed nightgown in his pants. An overwhelming feeling of gratitude washed over him as he realized that for once in his life, he found a happiness that did not go away.

He leaned on his elbow and watched while Javert long fingers deftly toiled with the buttons of his jacket in the dim firelight; a twinge of nostalgia urged him to invite the man back to bed, but he knew Javert would never consent to be late for work. This was the real man, not the one he spent years imagining, and Madeleine loved what he saw now more than what he had imagined for years, but he did not know clearly why. He recalled a distant time when the crow of roosters brought with it the scent of coffee and fresh bread; a few years when his sister Jeanne bade farewell to her husband with a kiss on his cheek, and to himself, with a fond squeeze on his forearm. His eyes wandered to the fireplace and settled on the chair, on which Javert’s uniform remained overnight; Javert had placed the jacket Madeleine left carelessly in a corner there out to dry. It occurred to him that perhaps those days may not be irretrievably lost, and that next time he would have coffee and bread ready for Javert.

Javert, finally wrapped in his coat and once again the fearsome policeman the rest of the world knew, stood before him and said: " _Merci_ for the bedspace."

"It was my pleasure." Madeleine replied without thinking. And indeed, it was. When the door closed quietly, he lied back on his bed and laughed. Had he been imagining or had Javert actually taken a quick glimpse where his night shirt opened on his chest? He chuckled and closed his eyes. For once, he told himself, the rest of the world could wait until he was ready to get up.

\--  
A few hours later, the cloudless morning welcomed him. Madeleine felt awed by the bright, cold sun reflecting in the snow. In his head resounded muffled moans and gasps which filled the night, and the stubborn little voice repeating that there would be other nights. When he dared to close his eyes, he could still feel Javert’s exertions on top of his body, and it became almost too tempting to relive the madness that took hold on him as he understood he was not alone in feeling the pleasure.

His neighbors’ faces came to meet him, greeted and continued their chores as if the world did not irrevocably change that very night. But like an echo of his own thoughts, a name was repeated in their mouths: Javert.

As Madeleine approached the Mairie’s Square, pieces of conversation reached his ears. Freed from his slumber, he hurried to the notice board where a crowd gathered to discuss the "moron Parisian", or the "crazy Officier de Paix" amid boisterous laughter.

" _Pardon_ ," he said simply. Heads turned to his voice and they gladly parted to allow him through, even though quite a few also assumed it would be the same if they just told the Maire what they were reading: The chief inspector's solicitation notice for a wife.

Ignoring the facts - as was usual - the crowd had come to a conclusion on the matter: Even though the frankness of the request testified to an honest man with a sincere request, no woman in her right mind would accept the proposal.

“Who would want to get lectured about their sewing, or worse, fined for adding too much salt into their husband's plate?” Monsieur le Curé asked, carried away by a fit of good humor.

"Any woman can use a well given slap as a reminder of her place. But none of them would tolerate a husband who puts his nose into their business, that is a fact." stated a well-meaning peasant.

“Bah! Imagine, to have an uncivil and barbaric husband who shows all his dirty laundry to the entire town on the message board! It is worse than any slap my husband could give me!”

“All this for a husband who only earns forty-five francs per month? It is bad enough having to see him at the market!" A choir of laughter welcomed the fishwife’s observation.

"No, no. The really bad thing would be to spend the whole day scrubbing his children’s cheeks to remove dirt, only to realize that the dark color will not leave! The woman must be mad!"

Madeleine resisted the urge to close his eyes against nausea and forced himself to adopt a blank expression before he allowed his eyes to refocus on the text.

"Chief inspector, Officier de Paix, Javert (salary 45f/month) is here soliciting a law-abiding, fertile woman for a wife. No need to provide dowry.

Also requested but not required:

* Can cook food for me to bring to the police station.  
* Can mend the elbows and knees of my uniforms.

In exchange, I will feed, clothe, and provide shelter for you and all children you bear, so long as the children are also law-abiding. To schedule a meeting, leave contact information at the police station or speak to me while I am on patrol.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madeleine is a beast! How did Javert survive that? Why does Madeleine have a liking for baguette-shaped objects? No idea.
> 
> For the readers who are familiar with the parallel doll universe, I welcome you to visualize the events of this chapter replacing the characters with the doll versions. It is hilarious.


	49. Outcasts

Monsieur Madeleine stood in stunned silence in front of the notice board, his broad, hunched shoulders blocking the view of increasingly restless new arrivals, those townsfolk whom many would call "slow to the news." 

"I guess that gypsy Javert must not be a tante (homosexual man) after all! Not that I would know how to recognize one, but the way he treats those girls showing themselves at the docks each night...!” A man commented from eerily close behind his head, and then with scarcely a pause, a woman voiced her agreement, “Oui, I was secretly worried for you, Monsieur le Maire, when he started to spend so much time with you!" 

Chilling words with even more chilling implications forced their way into his ears as the unknowing crowd discussed his private life to his face. Smiling through clenched jaws he focused instead on all the other notices plastered over the bulletin board, all posted by Javert. "Rue du Tripot, between Rue du Tongris and Parvis Saint-Firmin, is closed to vehicles until a large hole is repaired.", announced one, and "Vendredi, le 28 Septembre 1821- All property owners in Montreuil-sur-Mer are here reminded that they are responsible for cleaning their chimneys…" declared another, but by this point a familiar blinding rage had settled and rendered the symbols unreadable. 

Madeleine walked out of the growing crowd - for every person who left, seemingly two curious onlookers arrived - and felt no urge at all to walk to the mairie at the far end of the public square. But some disconcertingly lucid part of his brain remembered that it was only last night that he returned from Paris, and that he had not been to the mairie for almost a week. He entered, walked right past the clerks and told his shocked assistant, "Cancel all my meetings for the day." The usually calm man was so upset as to not being able to contain his tongue. He spoke of documents which must be reviewed and signed without delay, of many equally pressing meetings already booked. But Madeleine could not get himself to care; with a blank expression, he left. 

During his walk home, neighbors wished him a good day and children frolicking in the snow chased at his coat-tails, asking for new toys. He shook his head, no: to his ears it was all mockery. After he passed through the factory doors, he curtly informed the inquiring portress, Madame Blondel, that he will work from his room but no, he was not feeling unwell. 

No doctor could make his smile easier to wear, only the privacy of his room would allow him to set it down for a moment. He was about walk past her to the staircase when she mentioned, "While you were gone, Monsieur Erik Meyfroidt asked me who was the guest in your bedroom last night." He stopped. 

"I responded that you had returned from Paris on the last coach, and was alone when I let you in, but he insisted that you were joined by a guest," she continued in a softer voice. "I said nothing, Monsieur, but I remember letting the Chief Inspector in, but not allowing him out." There she stopped, perhaps sensing that she had already made too pointed a remark, or maybe trusting that she had said just enough for the maire to complete the thought himself. 

Madeleine turned to face her with a vehemence no living soul in Montreuil-sur-Mer had ever seen in the maire. It was true that the man known as Madeleine had faced much criticism, been the victim of malicious gossip many times in his life. Even as the maire he knew he was still not fully exempt, and he had learned not to be bothered by it. But them talking about Javert in that way was something entirely different, something entirely unacceptable. "Madame, you had already retired when the Chief Inspector finished his report, and I let him out myself instead of waking you," he retorted coldly. His portress flushed with embarrassment and quickly apologized. 

Madeleine said nothing more and locked himself into his room. 

In the following hours he was not seen again, and no sounds were heard even by the cashier attempting to spy from the room immediately below. It was not until the sun had risen to directly overhead, no longer shining through the east-facing window, that this curious neighbor heard the door unlock. He watched with his head stuck out his window as Monsieur Madeleine appeared in the alley down below, just outside the factory's rear entrance. The maire stooped low to address one of the gamins and put a letter along with a shiny object - certainly a generous amount of money - into the young boy's hand then sent the boy sprinting away. Then, ephemeral like a ghost, Monsieur Madeleine disappeared once more into his room quicker than Erik managed to poke his head up their shared staircase. 

Erik Meyfroidt shrugged, and then he sniffed the air and muttered curse. It smelled like the free lunch in the canteen today will be onion soup again. 

  


\--- 

  


When the gamin ran down Ruelle d'Orléans, braving the ice patches while waving the letter above his head, Vasseur was trying to smear off the soot-stained snow stuck to his worn out boot. Every child old enough to speak could recognize the town's distinctive Chief Inspector on sight, and this gamin was no different. He hummed his cheerful tune as he weaved his way around the rotund Vasseur and placed the letter into the outstretched hand of the taller man. The sheet was read quickly and placed into one of the pockets on the triple-caped greatcoat. 

"A tip today, for the quick delivery, Monsieur Chief Inspector?" pipped the gamin. 

"A job well done is its own reward," the Chief Inspector replied calmly. "Now go find another letter to deliver." 

The gamin beamed - this was a compliment - and quickly disappeared the way he came. 

"What is it?" Vasseur asked casually. 

"Monsieur le Maire requesting a meeting." 

"Ah. We issued a warning to Monsieur Louchart, didn't we? Had it been three days yet?" Vasseur asked. At his gesture Javert glanced up at the roof covered with blacked snow and humphed. 

"Non, it had been two," the Chief Inspector said. He scribbled a note onto his notepad. 

"Well then…" Vasseur said over the growl of his stomach, "My sandwiches are in the station. Do you think the crowd of self-appointed matchmakers are still there blocking the door?" 

"I will fine anyone who is still there five francs," Javert scoffed. 

"Then they can no longer hold my sandwiches hostage! Let us go back to eat!" 

"Do you know what the word "hostage" means?" 

The two men began the familiar walk back to the police station, but this morning for Chief Inspector Javert the path -- no, the entire world -- seemed a never before known place. Because of a single night in his life, suddenly all the people on the street sharing gazes and smiles were no longer participants in some social interaction to which he was not invited. After some mutually contemplative silence, Vasseur gave up trying to remember the verbatim definition - his boss will not accept even a single word deviation - and instead tried to change the topic. 

"So… why not a dowry?" he asked, venturing a sidelong at the man next to him, "Is this want for a wife about your promotion to Commissaire? Now that I think of it, I have never heard of an unmarried man getting the promotion to Commissaire. I don't even know of another Officier de Paix who is unmarried…" 

"It is too soon to think about another promotion." 

Vasseur tugged at a small tuft of his beard with his stubby fingers. "Suddenly grew tired of sleeping alone?" he asked next, in as much of a teasing tone as he felt appropriate to use with his boss. 

The Chief Inspector dignified this question with far more thought than it deserved before responding, "Oui." 

Vasseur shook his head. Earlier this morning he, and most of his coworkers, were reluctant to believe that their always level-headed chief would make an uninformed decision on a matter as important as marriage. Perhaps even Javert could be stupid sometimes. 

"Are you sure you want to hear someone complain every single night that you are too fat and you crush her?" he began, only to receive from his companion a dismissive glance. "... Ahem… No, that will not happen to you." 

Vasseur thought through his argument and began anew: "Really, we have not known each other long, but you seem like a man very settled into his routine. Not having to sleep alone is only one good part of being married. Do you really want to be forced to go back home straight after your shift ends, no more staying late? Or listen to a lot of nonsense about dresses? After handling complaints the entire day, go home to her complaints that you can’t afford a better place to live in? And I did not even start about her mother! You think you are only marrying her, but then you need to deal with her mother!" 

Javert's frown grew deeper as he listened. "But what would she want from me aside from me providing for my wife, which I would do anyway?" he asked after Vasseur was finished. 

Vasseur shook his head again and laughed. "Many, many things. I know, because as you would put it, I spent the past twelve years investigating." When, ominously, there was only silence in response, he said sympathetically, "It is not too late to post a retraction notice…" 

They stood for a moment to watch the work crew patching the hole in road. Two workers tamped down the newly extended layer of grit and gravel with their shovels, in preparation for the finishing layer of cobblestones to be laid in the spring. Vasseur stole more glances at his superior. After the last one, he frowned and tried to change the topic once more. 

"Did you hear of the new pork butcher in Bologne…? His sausages taste very different, and I can't tell whether it is garlic or some exotic spices..." 

  


\--- 

  


Long after the sun had set, Madeleine's factory continued to bustle with activity. Under the warm illumination of oil lamps, workers picked up their coats and bid their farewells for the day. Of course, some of the most gossipy among them bided their time to say all that could not wait a night, though since the vast majority of these workers lived in the subsidized housing Madeleine provided, they had the entire walk - and even the entire night if need be - to finish their discussions. 

Some hours ago Monsieur Madeleine had left his lunch barely touched before disappearing into his downstairs office. He had spent the the entire afternoon trying to focus on the documents scattered on his desk, but never managing to progress more than a few sentences before rising from his seat to gaze out his window. By the time Javert knocked on his door, he had forgotten all pretense of being productive and was pacing the room restlessly. 

The Chief Inspector had barely closed the door behind him when the maire's hands fell on him, one cupping his neck and the other clutching his upper arm, with affection and perhaps a little more strength than was necessary or comfortable. "Did you do that to protect me?" Madeleine’s gaze sought anxiously some expression that would allow him to guess the other man`s mood. 

This was the conclusion Madeleine reached after his day of self-imprisonment. From his deepest despair came his most profound hope: perhaps Javert loved him more than he realized. Perhaps Javert would go to this sort of length to protect him. After all, this was still the same man who shielded him from a savate master back in Toulon. He had spent the afternoon seriously considering whether he should rent his own house so he could move out from this factory, and away from all the prying eyes. Then he had waited for this moment, to ask his question. 

Some measure of Madeleine's anxiety must have passed onto Javert, for the inspector asked, "What protection did you need, Monsieur le Maire?” 

Not expecting this need for clarification, Madeleine gestured with his hands as he searched for words. "To protect me from the rumors that you spent a night in my room?" 

"But that is the truth. There is no protection from the truth." 

Madeleine's expression of earnestness froze on his face. 

“Non, Monsieur le Maire, I really wanted a wife." Javert continued calmly. "So you misunderstood… I wonder whether all the other people misunderstood also." 

“The other people? You wanted a wife? Why, for heaven’s sake?” Completely stunned, Madeleine dropped his arms and took a faltering step backward, seeking support on from his desk. 

“Monsieur le Maire?” The policeman showed almost none of his previous aversion to handling Madeleine physically as he led the maire to the red armchair. Then he unbuttoned the bottom of his coat and took a seat in the other armchair. "It is very simple," he said. "I want a wife because I have a duty to produce sons for the country.” 

"Why?" This was all Madeleine managed to say as his last hope was crushed before his eyes. "Why would you?" 

“Why would I want to produce sons? For my entire life I thought that there was no reason for someone who doesn't have value to produce children who will not be any more valued, even if they will be law-abiding citizens. But last night you made me understand that I am valued, and though my children will have to wear both my name and my skin, now I think they may also find someone who values them." Javert paused briefly and met Madeleine's eyes. "Merci," he said, another pause, then he cleared his throat. "And also I understand now how to have the necessary urges to reproduce, so I must not postpone my duty any longer: I must find a wife." 

Blood drained from Madeleine's face. His eyes dimmed as he tried to reconcile the rejection he had just been given with his deeply-held belief that God loved all his children equally. If that were the case, why would He allow so much loss in a single lifetime? What he had been told was not negotiable; Javert did not reject him because of something he could change. Javert was telling him that he had in fact done everything correctly, but that still was not good enough. 

Grasping for the last remaining strand of hope, Madeleine asked: "You are seeking a wife out of duty?" 

Javert nodded solemnly. 

“I understand now." Madeleine rose from his seat and lifted his chin before addressing the Chief Inspector. “You should leave,” he said curtly. 

“Oui, Monsieur le Maire.” Javert rose to his feet as well and adopted bowed his head before his superior. He quickly unbuttoned the chest of his coat to produce a package wrapped in brown paper. "This is the nightshirt you lent me," he said, and placed it onto the small coffee table. Then, without a hint of doubt in his voice, he added: “Did you want to hug before I leave?” 

Madeleine closed his eyes for a moment, and though his mind screamed at him to refuse, his need to feel Javert in his arms for another moment was more powerful. He gritted his teeth against the sensations assailing him all over. Though Javert’s hands did not hold his torso the same intimate way they did the night before, Javert hugged with his entire body, not only his arms. In the moment of contact Madeleine could feel the sharp intake of breath which almost seemed a sigh, and which transported him back to his bed, to the pleasure they surrender to, together, only hours before. 

It was in Javert's arms that Madeleine reached the conclusion which until then escaped him: he already had proof that the guard loved Jean Valjean, but now he knew from Javert’s eagerness for this hug that he, Madeleine, was wanted vehemently. And that despite this, Javert was willing to spend the rest of his life with a wife. And this was why, while standing secure in the arms of a man who had grown into the scourge against all thieves and all crime, Madeleine felt he was being robbed blind. 

“You should leave," he said between clenched teeth. "Now.” 

He could not bring himself to look up as hurried footsteps backed away, as Javert apologized for outstaying his welcome. “Pardon, Monsieur," the chastised man muttered, "Je suis désolé, Monsieur le Maire.” After the door closed, he collapsed into the armchair and covered his face with his hands. 

Some hours later, Monsieur Erik Meyfroidt was startled out of his sleep by the bustle of heavy, inconsiderate steps from the room upstairs. The unintelligible grumbles finished in a only bestial growl. Meyfroidt sat on his bed, expectant. Something big and heavy slammed into a wall once and again. A pause, and another hit which was followed by many more. With the walls reverberating around him, he had no doubt left: his employer had gone raving mad. 

  


\--- 

  


That same night in a tiny attic far at the other end of the town, two women worked under the meager, fickle light of a candle. 

"Did you hear that rumor...?" 

A battered bucket collected water from the melting snow which seeped drop by drop from the roof, drumming an endless staccato the women no longer perceived. They were hunched over their work, one of them shortening the hem of a gorgeous gentleman's coat, the other by setting a shirt’s cuff. On top of an overturned box, a pile of tied rags served as a pincushion. The old crate labeled "Manufactures Madeleine" was together with a mattress stuffed with straw and the two rickety chairs in which they sat, the only furniture in the modest room. 

"No.” 

"But you were so right about the maire!" 

At the mere mention of this man's title a spark of hatred shone in the younger woman’s eyes. She was petite and still young but was withered beyond her years. In another time, when her innocence first lead her astray, she was beautiful. Now her cheeks bones were sharp, her toned arms were dry and gnarled branches poking out from patched rags. From her sunken eyes came a gaze brightened only by fever and hunger. 

Fantine - this was the name by which she was known - did not interrupt the speech of her older companion even though her mind flew towards the only joy remaining in her life, the daughter she was forced to leave in the care of others. She could still remember her little girl had blond, thin hair and her father’s mouth. How miraculous was it, that those lips could be so cruel when on one man's face but so filled with joy when on her tiny, plump face? 

"This fabric is perfect for the coat I will sew for my little girl. With it she will no longer be sick, I'm sure.” 

Without being aware at all, she spoke her thoughts out loud, while feeling the blue fabric between her fingers. “It will have a high collar to block wind, and little lined pockets, very warm, for her hands, but also little mittens attached to the hem so she can take her hands out of her pockets and play. It will have frills on the collar and down the center, and along the bottom…” 

The older woman did not seem to mind being interrupted, and went along with the abrupt change in topic easily. "You think she will like that?" she asked, and finished stitching to the end of her thread before glancing up at Fantine. When it became obvious that Fantine had no answer, she reached over and patted Fantine's arm. "Oh look at me, always saying the wrong things! Of course your daughter will love it!" she said, laughing. 

But Fantine began to cough, the long, painful convulsions draining her body of whatever life it had left. Her old neighbor did not do anything besides look to her with pity, and declare with feigned cheerfulness, "It is late, I must go sleep!" And with that, she took away both her work and took the shared candle, for she owned that too. Fantine nodded and waved her goodbye while still coughing. 

In the complete darkness, cold as the inside of a tomb, Fantine felt her way to her mattress and sat down. The cough would not let her breathe, and although she no longer had pillows on which to recline, the icy wall served as substitute. Wrapped in the shawl she wore to go out when she must face the wrath not just of nature but of human gossip, she leaned back and was carried away by a sweet drowsiness, still stroking the little scrap of wool she had cut of the coat’s hem. 

  


\--- 

  


Still leaning against the wall, Fantine’s hand went to her sore neck while she wondered what could have waken her. Her first yawn was interrupted by another fit of irritating cough. A knock on the door, likely not the first, impelled her to get up hastily and open her door just enough to peer through. 

The barrel-chested, graying man whom she dreamt of spitting on every night stood waiting. “Madame, I am looking for Fantine, a seamstress," the man said, for this was Madeleine trying to replace Javert's shirt. "Do I have the right address?" 

She dug her nails into the palm of her hand. A slap, to give him a slap would be the right thing to do. One slap for firing her and a spit for making her daughter go hungry. This would be justice. Only a fear of being arrested stopped her -- she could not pay off her debt from jail. “I am Fantine. What do you want?” she asked brusquely. 

"Madame." Madeleine seemed momentarily taken aback by her attitude. "My portress told me you're a good shirt maker. I have a job that needs to be done quickly. I will pay you well. " 

Fantine opened the door fully and put a hand on her hip, indignant. "You are giving me a sewing job? After firing me from your factory because I am an unwed mother? Why? Too chaste and pure to be seen employing someone like me out in the open, but it is fine when no one else knows?" 

Madeleine clenched his jaw. It was just hours ago that, after destroying half his furniture, he saw Javert's torn shirt and felt too weary to continue, despite the anger still boiling in his veins. He had made the necessary measurements on the garment to have the promised replacement made, then lit a fire for the sole purpose of burning the shirt, not only to destroy evidence of that night but also to purge his anger. Yet by the time the fire was roaring, and he felt the heat uncomfortably against his face, he could no longer do it. He had opened his hidden cupboard a sliver and pushed the torn shirt through the crack, where it joined the last remnants of the convict '24601' still left in this world: the coarse shirt of yellow linen and red smock he wore out of Toulon, both torn beyond repair from his walk across France. He thought of that shirt now as he pressed rough fingers into his forehead. This woman, he told himself, could not know about his loss. She could not possibly know this was a bad time to insult him. He reached into his pocket and he brushed the rosary with his fingers. The teachings of the Bishop - love and empathy - came back to guide him. 

Then, he took a deep breath and asked plaintively: "I remember your face. Was I the one to hire you?" 

"Yes!" 

"Then as far as I know, you are still hired, unless you harmed my other workers or stole equipment…" 

“You would?" Her face lit up for a moment, but soon the sadness which aged her prematurely returned. "It is no use. Madame Magloire and her friends will surely find a way to get me fired again. The entire town knows now that I am an unwed mother. They find the sight of me to be repulsive.” 

Madeleine remembered the cruel, unwritten rule that denied work to fallen women, to men of other races and to ex-convicts alike. he knows even if he prevents anyone from firing her, her days will not be pleasant. It would disrupt his business. 

“I can hire a good seamstress. Workers need aprons and blouses.” 

“I am not a beggar. I will do the job you came for, and if it is good enough you can give me more.” 

The maire handed her a piece of paper with what she recognized as measures. The measures of a tall man, not those of Madeleine. If his numbers were not correct, her work would not be good. She frowned: that was a risk she had to take. “This is a very long shirt, Monsieur. I will need half pound of fabric, and it will take three days to sew it.” She thought for a moment. “Give me one hundred sous - five francs - and I will return whatever is leftover.” 

That amount of money seemed meager to Madeleine; but he was sure that she would not accept other payment, even though he knew the money would never be sufficient to correct the damage his incompetence, his lack of discretion in choosing his factory managers had caused. However, there was something he could do: give money to the child to ensure that both could eat decently until work orders arrived. No mother would forbid her daughter to accept a gift given in good faith. He looked around, searching for the small one. 

“Where is your daughter, Madame?” 

“She is not here. I had no hope that someone would hire me if they know. So I was forced to leave her in the care of others." 

“But as you said, everyone knows already. And this fact does not matter to me. You should bring her here, where she belongs.” 

"As soon as I can, I will, Monsieur. But I do not want my daughter to sleep on the floor, with no blanket to cover, without fire to warm her. My daughter will get up every day knowing her mother has a piece of bread in store for her, and she will not miss a roof over her head. The day will come, Monsieur. But not yet." 

Madeleine nodded gravely. All expectations the poor woman had were reasonable. And in a fair world, they would have been easy to fill. But not in the world in which they happen to live. Looking into her eyes, in what Fantine could not know was a silent promise, he asked. “What is her name?” 

A splendid smile lit her haggard face. For a moment, her gaze seemed to fly toward a different place and see the little girl she hardly remembered. “Her name is Cosette.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _tante_ : Term used in period to refer to homosexuals, sometimes with nuance of "bottom", but here used in contempt.
> 
> A joke just for laughs-  
> M: Did you do that to protect me?  
> J: What protection did you need, Monsieur le Maire?  
> M: A condom.


	50. Love from a distance

 

The warm breeze swayed the cherry trees flowering along the banks of the Canche, high with melted snow. Wild daffodils sprouted on every inch of moist earth, a dense and lively yellow blanket broken on by the ramparts.

At the end of a long winter, even the most hardworking and money-conscious of Montreuil-sur-Mer inhabitants could be found at the Saturday market, marveling over the year's newest fashions and catching up with friends. Children ran, women browsed, and the men compared prices. It was in this boisterously amiable atmosphere that a petite woman - wearing a dress and bonnet of little more than rags, but tidily - slowly made her way through the colorful stalls. Though she did not do anything to attract attention to herself, it did not take long at all for her to be recognized.

"Look, the bitch has cut her hair!" one woman exclaimed, pointing. "Hide, whore! What thick skin, to show yourself in public!" chastised another. If these chaste souls only felt the slightest curiosity before expressing their condemnation, they would have discovered that all the unfortunate woman wanted was a piece of fabric with which to complete a coat for her little daughter. Some may have even found admirable the fact that she sold her gorgeous hair to pay for the fabric, but, alas, their minds were already set.

As the shouts grew more harsh and a vicious crowd gathered around her, the top hat which could be seen peeking above the crowd in the other corner of the market began to move. The crowd parted obediently before it as it briskly neared, and soon the wall of outraged, pointing fingers in front of Fantine parted to reveal the town's tall, dark, Chief Inspector. Moments later, the rotund form of Vasseur, still gobbling up the remains of a gherkin from the preserved foods vendor a few stalls away, appeared also.

"What is the cause of unrest?" Javert demanded, when no voice proclaimed the frightened woman holding a small scrap of chestnut-brown wool tweed had stolen.

"This slut thinks she is entitled to mingle with the good people! Take away the slut!" A man shouted to widespread agreement.

Javert turned to face the crowd and did not bother raising his voice - it would not be necessary - to respond: "I have never seen her in a brothel or at the docks. She is not a whore. This is defamation." At the end of his words he nodded his head, and it only took a few minutes for Vasseur to restore the peace, using threats of fines and arrest warrants where necessary.

Then the Chief Inspector addressed the woman. “Madame, if you still want to buy, I will escort you.”  
The woman, Fantine, still pale from her earlier fright, gave him first an incredulous look than one of gratitude. " _Merci,_ Monsieur," she said, meeting his eyes. " _Merci beaucoup_." When the policeman's only reaction was to frown, she lowered her eyes back to the cloth in her hand and resolutely turned to the next stall, then the next stall, and the stall after that. The response she received was always the same: No more heavy wool, but perhaps linen, or luxurious cotton, maybe a thin wool cloth instead?

Aware of the protective presence of Javert behind her, she continued until she found a trader who had made the trip with the last of his winter wool, though it was a blue completely mismatched with the small sample she brought with her. She laid her small piece on top of the cloth and hesitated. When Javert peered over her shoulder, she turned and explained sadly, "I only could not choose between a thin wool to match the color of the other half of the coat or this warm wool." She had been too impatient to purchase fabric with the Christmas bonus she received from Monsieur Madeleine, even though it was only enough for half of the coat.

"Warmth is most important," Javert declared, and Fantine agreed. She carefully counted her coins, collected the goods and bowed her head briefly before walking straight to the exit, without looking back. She could not even tell when Javert stopped following her, and she did not stop until she reached the safety of her room.

There, she carefully laid out the quarter-pound of wool on the crate which served as her sewing table, and picked up the letter she had placed next to her needles. She sat down and unfolded the piece of paper, and traced with her eyes, once more, the flowing lines while remembering the voice of the town's public scribe as he read out the words of the innkeeper Monsieur Thénardier.

"Although winter comes to an end, Cosette is still complaining of the cold, no doubt due to her sickly nature. Monthly payments are insufficient to replace her worn clothes, and the girl is outgrowing whatever is not worn. Send me ten francs and we will buy a warm dress she can wear until summer..."

She still wondered whether the public scribe, so desperate for her to leave, could have omitted some of the information - so precious to her - contained among these lines. Why was she sick for so long, and why in so many letters Monsieur Thénardier had sent, he had not passed along a single word from Cosette? But she could never know. A tear slipped from her face and she quickly wiped it with her hand before it could fall onto the paper. Then she glanced out her window and, telling herself that there should be at least another four hours of good sunlight today, got to work.

\---  
  
Shortly after Fantine left the market, Chief Inspector Javert departed also, to attend his weekly appointment  
with Monsieur le Maire. There, he spent several hours reading silently next to the maire. Though the armchairs they sat in were close enough to touch, that did nothing to heal the coldness which had settled between them since that night in early winter.

The light streaming through the window turned from white, to gold, to crimson. When the maire rose from his seat and declared that it was time for him to prepare for his dinner, Javert rose also and, as he had done every time, waited just a moment before he saw himself out the door. He waited, even glanced back over his shoulder. But just like every time since that night, the maire did not seem eager for a hug.

The impossibly long shadow of Chief Inspector Javert lumbered down Rue Pierre Ledent towards the police station, occasionally slowing to a near stop as the man became so mired in his thoughts that he forgot to continue moving his legs.

His meetings with the maire were no longer the same. The graying man had undeniably lost weight, that broad mayoral chest seemed thinner, and those large arms no longer were large enough to strain the buttons of the maire's jackets every time they were raised. Also the maire was prone to tiredness, and dragged his lame foot more often than before. The most distressing part of it all, however, was that the maire also stopped giving clear answers. He, Javert, could not understand it.

As he trudged along the cobblestoned road, past the storefronts of the tailor, butcher, and shoemaker, and then the cafe, he held the tall collar of his coat closed to warm his beardless chin. Involuntarily, his thoughts returned again to the last hug they shared. The maire had stopped wanting hugs and though he never asked, he could tell Madeleine did not want to share a bed again either.

Could the maire, who seemed very sensitive about his image, be concerned about public opinion of two unmarried men sharing a bed? But hugging was something normal men do all the time, so why not that anymore? And it was common for men of less means, like himself, to share a bed with another man while traveling, sometimes even at home. It was not illegal for them to share hugs and occasionally share a bed. Last week he had even checked just to be very sure. As for the gossips, the people will talk no matter what was done, and the majority of the so-called "news" they share with each other were fabrications. He knew this because until participating in those more questionable activities with the maire - he let go of his collar because his face felt inextricably like it was burning - he had lived his life strictly by what was written in the Code and what any respectable citizen would expect of a man holding his title. Despite this, the craziest rumors still followed him no matter throughout his years of service, all across the country. What did it matter what they said? Gossips were harmless, and the maire was a man who did not think twice before crawling under a fallen cart which could have crushed any other man.

He stopped and watched for a moment as, up ahead and to his left, the town's barber swept the day's hair scraps into a sewage hole. Then he considered the question the maire had asked of him again: why want a wife? The explanation he had given was not wrong. It was the duty of a working man. But Monsieur le Maire was not satisfied. Why? Maybe the maire just needed to hear a better reason from him about why he needed to do his duty. But didn't he give exactly the reason he had received from Captain Thierry? Why would the reason be enough for him but not enough to Monsieur le Maire? Could it be that it shouldn't be enough to him either?

Fiacres, chariots, and riders passed on his right, their wheels and hooves kicking up little rocks which occasionally bounced off his boots. All around him property-owners were lighting the lamps outside their doors. He had walked down this exact street unaccompanied countless times. But now, suddenly, he felt lonely.

When an approaching vehicle sped into view ahead of him, far faster than the surrounding traffic, and screeched immediately to almost half speed, he made eye contact with the driver. The driver stomped his feet in frustration and obediently brought his carriage to a halt along the curb, Javert walked towards it.

"That half speed you slowed to, that was the lawful speed for this street, Monsieur," Javert declared to the waiting driver. "From now on, use it."

"Yes, Chief Inspector. Give me my ticket and I will pay the fine tomorrow."

" _Non_ ," Javert replied to the flabbergasted man. "Simply do not drive that fast again, down Rue Pierre Ledent."

Javert did not feel the urge to find his note pad and write out the ticket in this moment. He was not on patrol. This was not his duty. He held his collar again and continued walking, leaving behind the hysterical laughter of the driver, who could not believe his luck.

Through the spring and summer of 1822, the crime rate in Montreuil-sur-Mer increased and petty offenders, such as this chronic speeding driver, rejoiced.

\---

As the heat of summer waned, the sun began to set earlier and earlier. Fantine gazed through the small window of her room into the street while gingerly flexing her thumb and index fingers, her joints cramping from holding the needle. The hours she could work by the light of her window would become scarce once more and the expenses due to the candles would rise again. Briefly, she turned to the crate currently filled with a stack of neatly folded aprons waiting to be pressed.

She huddled in her shawl of coarse wool, which was not enough to stop the shivers running through her body. How foolish she had been, she chided herself, thinking that summer would last just a little longer, just long enough to earn a couple more francs. By all measures, her situation should be improving. Though it was true that nearly every sou which reached her pocket was quickly claimed by one creditor or another, she was slowly but surely clearing her debts.

And even when Monsieur Thénardier raised the price for Cosette’s maintenance from ten to fifteen francs, a situation which, just a few months ago, would have been utterly untenable, she managed to pay it for two months. She simply worked as much as she could, while eating and sleeping as little as she could. Then one day, when she reached the end of her strength, she decided to follow the advice of her old neighbor Marguerite, and stood in front of her creditors demanding more time to pay, arguing quite sensibly that dead women could not pay their debts. Because of the payments she had made in the past months using the money she earned from Monsieur Madeleine, all of them agreed.

Applying this line of reasoning to her own life, she resumed eating every day once more, a habit which returned with astonishing ease. Slowly, she made the time to work towards the future she dreamt of. She had sorted all the fabric scraps she saved from the aprons she sewed into two piles: pieces larger than the size of one of her hands in one, and smaller pieces in another. By carefully sewing those large pieces together, she had already completed first a mattress case and then a small pillow case into which she stuffed the smaller scraps. And gradually she bought balls of wool to knit, mostly at night after she grew too tired and ached too much to sew. It would become a colorful blanket knitted in the same pattern as the shawl she wore, and often the thought of Cosette returning to her side gave her the energy to fight off sleep just a little longer.

And so now, in a corner of the room far away from the leak in the ceiling, sat two crates labeled “Manufactures Madeleine”, carefully tethered together to serve as mattress base. On top of it sat the mattress case, pillow, and partially completed blanket. In another month, maybe two, she will have the blanket done and gathered enough naturally dried grass just before the first snow to fill up the mattress. Then it would be just like those beds she saw selling at the market for upwards of twenty francs, and all she had paid for it was some of her time. Something which, for Cosette, she would never, never run out of.

But Fantine's dreamy smile faded as she crumpled the piece of paper she pulled out of her pocket. She had accomplished much, but in the end it did not matter: Monsieur Thénardier's last letter, sent four days ago and just put into her hand this afternoon, informed her that Cosette was seriously ill and in need of medication. A military fever, the scribe had told her; often fatal for children, Marguerite had said. Forty francs, Monsieur Thénardier had explained, was required for the medication.

Sewing aprons enough to get forty francs would take more than a month, assuming she found a way to live without sleep. Her situation was simple: with no reputation, without remarkable skills which could allow to think that she would build a better future to pay new creditors, it was impossible for her to get that money in a day, not even in a week, and she urgently needed to send the money out with the post tomorrow, if not tonight.

She raised a hand to her head. Her hair had not even grown enough since she had it all shaved off for much of it to fall past her neck, so it could not be sold again. She looked around her room, evaluating every single piece of her possessions. All she had left to sell, that would be worth anything, were Cosette's bed and her own body. Nothing else was worth more than a few sous.

\---

Under a large walnut tree at the edge of the forest west of town, just across the Canche, Monsieur Madeleine dozed lightly, cradled by the rustling of leaves and branches.

It was scarcely an hour ago that the town's maire had walked out of the Mairie at the conclusion of his final meeting for the day. Even though it was still two hours before the time he normally left for home, he had felt weak - as he felt at the end of an unusually long day - and inexplicably claustrophobic in the spacious maire's office. So he left on the heels of the councilman he had met with, and walked straight west, towards the sun.

Long ago, before Javert's arrival to Montreuil-sur-Mer, he would head into the forest with his shotgun sometimes, to take a leisurely stroll, breathe the scent of the trees and flowers, and practice his aim at random branches. Such trips were a precious respite which for a few hours allowed him to return to a simpler life.

Today, coming from the Mairie, he did not have his shotgun. He was too tired to practice his aim anyway, even if he went to retrieve it from his room. Wandering through the forest aimlessly, he soon found his way here, to this walnut tree. He sat down, saw that the yield from the tree seemed to be a small one this year, then closed his eyes.

Walnut trees are productive in alternate years, and he remembered how this tree had covered the ground with walnuts last years. The tree was fine.

When he woke, the light was dimming. He hurried back across the river before it got completely dark, and then limped his way back up the gentle slope towards Montreuil-sur-Mer's upper town, where every building of note was, including both the Mairie and his factory.

As he turned onto Rue du Tripot on his way back to the factory, Madeleine recognized the impressive silhouette of the Chief Inspector and stopped short. Halfway up the street, Javert was crouched down in front of a mud ditch full of wild flowers, and two steps behind him the widow Beaumont waited patiently. Conscious to be attracting attention to himself, and again too tired to continue, the maire sought a seat on a nearby bench while watching the couple covertly. The widow chose that moment to turn her head toward Javert, and with a smile, to gently pull his sleeve up while muttering something close to his ear.

It was as if someone had dropped a burning ember into Madeleine’s chest.

He watched as Javert stood and - with a frown - handed the widow a small pink flower. Then the widow held onto Javert's arm and they walked, very awkwardly with the proud and tall form of Javert forced into an unnatural slouch because the widow only reached Javert's chest in height.

Madeleine decided he had seen enough and turned back, taking a longer detour to avoid the street.

When he finally arrived at the factory, his portress quickly filled his head with information he could not manage to assimilate, until the mention of a name - Fantine - brought him back to his senses.

"Where is she?"

"I've made her wait in my room, Monsieur le Maire. She did not seem very comfortable with the idea of waiting on the street."

"You did the right thing, Madame. I will receive her now."

Since he knew the circumstances that had led to the dismissal and subsequent calamities of Fantine, Madeleine felt responsible for her. Not the sort of responsibility that impelled him to spend a few francs for a good cause, but liability born from guilt that drove him to take the unfortunate woman’s fate in his hand and change it. There was only one problem: up until now, Fantine’s pride had forbidden him from doing so.

Yet here was Fantine, head bowed and eyes reddened with tears, explaining that her little girl was seriously ill and in desperate need of medicine she could not afford. He rose from his seat and, making an effort to show he was making no judgment on her with this gesture, wordlessly held out a one hundred-franc note to the grieving woman.

"I only need forty francs, Monsieur, and time to pay it back in full."

"Madame, the letter said those forty francs are for medicine. You once worked for me so you must know I opened an infirmary to provide free care to my workers. If Cosette were already here, I would have paid for her medicine without even requiring you to ask. And medicine is only one cost," he said in a measured tone, "what about the doctor's visitation fee? Cost for more nourishing food and drink, perhaps, while she is ill? Did the innkeeper say anything else?"

Fantine seemed near tears again as she shook her head. "The scribe did not say anything about it."

Madeleine considered his options. "I will loan you these forty francs," he said placing two gold Louis into her hand, "send it to the innkeeper. Payment is due… one hundred months from the day Cosette is back." When Fantine's only response to this was to lower her eyes and nod in gratitude, Madeleine realized the situation may be even worse than he imagined. "That is the most urgent matter," he said next. "After the payment is in the post, Madame, please come back with the letters the innkeeper Thénardier had sent to you -- I only wish to understand the situation so I can write to him personally for more details."

"Monsieur, I ..." Fantine stuttered, shaking her head. Those letters detailed how the amount she owed to Monsieur Thénardier had grown steadily over the past months, and the true amount was several times more than what she had Madeleine believe it to be. "Monsieur, I appreciate your generosity, but…"

Madeleine accepted her response and walked her to the door. "Madame," he said, and smiled in his wistful way before commenting cryptically, "I understand that dignity, perhaps pride, these things are very important and worth more than any amount of gold. But if I were in your situation, and asking for help could bring the person so dear to me to my side, I would not hesitate. I would open my mouth and beg, if that would make a difference. If stealing could fix the problem, Madame, if it… perhaps I would even consider that possibility seriously." Realizing that he had said far more than he should, he cleared his throat into a fist. "Whatever you decide, know that I only want what is best for you daughter, as you do."

"You are… you are right, Monsieur Madeleine," Fantine said, through sobs. "My stubbornness is causing Cosette more suffering. I will return with the letters soon, Monsieur."

\---

The next day, it was nearly dusk when the Chief Inspector reported to Madeleine's office at the end of his patrol. Madeleine gestured for the man to settle into his armchair and said, after a short silence, "Thank you for coming, despite it being a personal matter."

"It is my privilege to be of assistance, Monsieur le Maire."  
"How is Madame Veuve Beaumont? Is she well?"

"She was well as of dinner yesterday evening, when I left her at her front door."

Madeleine cleared his throat. "Ah. Yes, I remember seeing the two of you yesterday afternoon."

"I also saw you," Javert replied. "On Rue du Tripot near the intersection with Rue du Tongris."

Unable to come up with a good response to that, Madeleine cleared his throat again before laying out across the coffee table the huge - nearly twenty - letters Fantine had handed to him. "I do not want to take more of your time than necessary, Chief Inspector. Allow me to explain the situation for which I wish to hear your opinion. The young daughter of one of my workers had been staying with an innkeeper and his family at Montfermeil over the past four years. These are the letters the innkeeper, a Monsieur Thénardier, had sent her. Seventeen of them in all, and every single one of them is asking the mother - Fantine - for money. At first a few francs on top of the ten to fifteen she already pays per month, but recently as much as thirty, forty francs. And the reasons he gives are always the same -- the child Cosette is ill with one thing or another: cold, cough, now military fever..." Madeleine saw that Javert was listening attentively and gazed into those eyes for a moment before lowering his eyes back down to the table. "It seems unbelievable to me, Javert. But it is an act of kindness for an innkeeper, who could not possibly be wealthy, to take in a child in need this way. I do not want to rush to judgment on a good man."

"Monsieur le Maire, in order to give you my best opinion, I must take the time to read through these."

"Yes, please do. They are short. But please keep the information confidential."

"I will treat it as I treat evidence. I know of the woman Fantine."

"Oh?" Madeleine said, surprised. But Javert had already began reading and Madeleine did not interrupt, only leaned back into his armchair and watched the man next to him.

"If you wish to hear my opinion, Monsieur le Maire --"

"Yes, Chief Inspector."

"This is not believable to me. First, military fever is highly contagious and if there were cases in Montfermeil, I would know. Montfermeil is close enough to us that I would need to monitor such a situation. Perhaps this innkeeper mis-remembered the name of the illness given by the doctor. Still, if you sum up the amount of money this man had asked from Fantine over the past year, it is in excess of three hundred fifty francs. It is as much as the youngest policemen in Montreuil-sur-Mer earns, all for the care of a young girl staying with others? How old is she?"

"She is six."

"And forty francs just for medicine? If it cost that much to cure a military fever, Monsieur le maire, France would not have survived the return of Napoleon's army ten years ago. As Chief Inspector of a town, an Officier de Paix, I earn more than many. Yet I only have thirty francs left per month from my monthly stipend of forty-five francs after payment of rent. If I caught this fever, I would die. Either the man is grossly exaggerating the cost, or he is lying altogether."

Madeleine nodded solemnly. "Yes, Monsieur, I understand. My plan was to personally make a trip to Montfermeil to pay off those ninety-seven francs this Thenardier claims Fantine still owes, and bring Cosette back. If all goes well, I should be gone less than a week. Will you be able to monitor the crucial business at the Mairie while I am gone? I know you now have other obligations."

"Non, Monsieur le Maire," Javert replied, and Madeleine widened his eyes in shock until the Chief Inspector continued, "I should go in your place. If the man is not a fraud, then the Maire is not necessary to escort a child. I can do it. And if the man is indeed a fraud, I will have a better idea of what to do than you. Though my authority does not extend to Montfermeil, I can contact the local police for aid."

"But… Javert, I did not intend to ask you to do any more than give your opinion."

"Oui, Monsieur le Maire. And my opinion is that the best solution is for me to make the trip to Montfermeil."

"I trust you to know how to handle Monsieur Thénardier, of course. I only do not know whether you will frighten the child."

Javert considered this and nodded. "The child should not be afraid of me if she did nothing wrong. But I could bring along Vasseur, if that helps with your concern. Vasseur and I making the trip together is still better than you making the trip alone."

Madeleine rose from his armchair and turned to face Javert, who followed his motion. "Then, Monsieur l'Inspecteur, consider both Fantine and I to be in your debt," the maire said.

" _Non_. I am only being your friend," Javert replied, and then lowered his gaze down to the hat he was turning slowly in his hands. "Uh… Monsieur le Maire, before I depart, do you wish to hug?"

"Yes I do, Monsieur l'Inspecteur."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.histoire-image.org/site/etude_comp/etude_comp_detail.php?i=619  
> There are two pictures in this link, both pictures are of the the first quarter of the nineteenth century. The first one is a cabaret whose clientele belonged to the working class.  
> The second picture is a cafe. There are nobles (foreground) and bourgeois.  
> Military Fever was the name by which typhus and typhoid fever were known at the time. http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Typhus  
> The rate or speed of hair growth is about 1.25 centimetres or 0.5 inches per month, or about 15 centimetres or 6 inches per year. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_hair_growth


	51. Inn of Thieves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally we planned the entire Montfermeil trip to be one chapter, but it had grown to the length of nearly 3 of our average chapters, in part due to the spontaneous (unplanned) appearance of a big character in the story...
> 
> So, this is part 1/3 of the Montfermeil storyline. We are aiming to post part 2 quickly.

In the middle of the dense forest just east of Paris stood a small cluster of buildings, as if some pioneering travelers grew tired of the monotony of the birches, oaks, and maples, and asked themselves: "Why not turn some of these trees into furniture?" 

This is the town of Montfermeil. 

It boasted a small castle and some manor houses which had survived the recent Revolution. For generations the small, remote town grew around its old church and its two proud mills, one for bread and one for lumber, and its inhabitants lived a simple life with the simple pleasures of the peasant, insulated from the technological advances and political turmoil of Paris. 

For as long as even the oldest of its residents recalled, the town's collective imagination had been captured by the mysterious comings and goings of Beelzebub himself through their forests, which seemed to come alive in the nights. But that changed since some years ago one Monsieur Thénardier of mysterious origins arrived and opened an inn right next to their church. It was the biggest mystery of them all, believed by some to be black magic, the way this inn in the middle of nowhere was full to capacity most nights every week. 

And now, outside the back door of this inn "Le Sergent de Waterloo", a tiny girl stood on her tiptoes to empty out a bucket of fresh water into the laundry tub and then gazed up at the clothesline sagging with clothes. 

An expression of anguish distorted her tiny gaunt face. 

Perhaps, just for a moment, she considered what to her was the ultimate act of defiance - to stop working for a moment and show the pretty dress she just washed to her doll, a tiny, rusted, dull paring knife the Madame threw into the trash - but all that was forgotten when the Madame's cackling laughter reached her ears. Glancing over her shoulder in guilt and fear, she hurried to set her stool and the basket at the middle of the line, where the line sagged the lowest and made her task the least daunting, and climbed atop the stool. The little one managed to collect the dresses and aprons which completely dwarfed her by carefully setting the huge basket underneath the garments and dropping them from the clothesline. While she worked her way down the line, she carefully averted her eyes from the large, bright star that watched her from the sky, carefully closed her ears to the eerie rustle of nocturnal vermin leaving their dens, and carefully hide herself from view with the closest garment every time the echo of Madame’s screams reached her from the kitchen. Carelessness was decidedly not part of this child's nature, she hungered for her dinner too much for it. 

That "the lark", as this child was known to all in town, led an existence of misery was something most regarded with only indifference. For they had all heard talk of the child's unholy origins and naturally assumed an even darker fate was looming for her beyond the horizon - or, perhaps, looming just behind those trees. After all, as the saying went, _“Les chiens ne font pas de chats (Dogs do not breed cats)_." But, contrary to popular belief, when this child was delivered into the world where no father was waiting for her 1, the little red blanket her mother wrapped around her was love, not misery. She was made to taste misery by the Thénardiers. 

Of course, the six year-old child did not understand any of this beyond the fact that she was disliked. 

She pushed the overflowing laundry basket into the kitchen stealthily, steering clear of Madame Thénardier, who was busy at the chopping board. Next to the trash a sack of potatoes already starting to sprout waited for her. The lark caught her breath as the heavy axe in Madame Thénardier's hand rose and fell in quick succession before a swipe across the chopping board sent everything into the steaming pot. 

“What day is it? You stupid girl, it is Tuesday,” bellowed the the mule of a woman, who combined within her personality the obedience of a dog with the vengefulness of a cat. “The _diligence_ (high-speed coach) from Valenciennes and Brussels will soon be here, full of Belgians 2 wanting their potato fries! And the _coucou_ (horse-drawn carriage) to Lagny has already arrived! Peel the sack and then go get water for the horses -- what are you waiting for, lazy bastard child!" 

Those travelers she mentioned with such enthusiasm were soon to spend a night in this inn as a herd of great mammals would collapse in an open field under circling vultures. 

Out in the hall, Monsieur Thénardier was already busy with the passengers of the _coucou_ : the first-class passengers, every single one a business opportunity, were ushered to one central table while those so-called "spiders" - second-class passengers who traveled clutching their luggage - were disposed of in a remote corner of the bar and promptly ignored. 

Of course, these carcasses soon to be picked clean did not all end up here out of divine will. They were led here by co-conspirators: a pack of wolves. 

One of the passengers on the _diligence_ from Valenciennes, a loud-mouthed Parisian anxious to get home, demanded to know why they had stopped for the night only two hours away from their destination. 

"The axle of the stagecoach has a loose bolt," replied the driver passively as he gestured for a refill. "If we hit a bump, we'll be lying on the road." 

The traveler from Valenciennes, still unhappy, retreated back to his table. However the travellers from Lagny were still crowded around their own driver asking why they had stopped just two and a half hours into their trip. 

The driver of the _coucou_ , who was already on his third glass of wine told the men sadly, "Ah, we're out of luck tonight, my poor Vigoureux had lost one of his horseshoes. The town's blacksmith will have work to do while we sleep." 

Monsieur Thénardier had not managed to build up this formidable business without some amount of skill, and he diffused the explosive situation with nothing more than a grin and perfect timing: "Our town's blacksmith is the best craftsman this side of Paris and this is the best inn you will find for your travelers," he interjected directing towards the drivers a knowing wink. "Do not worry gentlemen, be merry! Make yourself feel at home!" Needless to say, as soon as the irritated traveler turned his back the shrewd innkeeper pushed some coins into the drivers’ hands. 

In this inn as in the wild, rodents gathered around the feet of the vultures, drawn by the scent of blood. Timed nearly to the second with the arrival of the first travelers, the near constant stream of locals began to take their places without fuss as if the dining hall of dirty and mismatched stools were a Parisien operatic theater with ticketed seating. 

Some of these regulars were honest workers at the mills here at the end of their shifts, eager to share stories, news, or simply to see new faces. These men were the most harmless of the bunch, and they were content with confining themselves to the tables in the dark corners. Then there were some groups of local youth who had come looking for trouble, eager to laugh at exotic accents and unusual outfits, maybe even instigate a brawl for entertainment. The most daring of them loved to fool around with any ladies especially the foreigners, because, in their words, what was not to love about women who have breasts but not the knowledge of how to file a harassment complaint? They were disappointed tonight: nine of the ten stagecoach travelers were Belgians, but none of them were women. However, this did not prevent them from taking their usual seats, better ones than those occupied by the workers. The reason for this was simple: the last brawl they started at the inn earned Monsieur Thénardier over a hundred francs in damage charges, similarly every woman they managed to bed was one rented room. 

The prime seats were reserved for the most industrious locals. One such as père Dadier, a skillful gambler with a reputation of winning all games, even games of pure chance, who earned more picking bored Belgians down to their undershirts than he ever would tilling his field. Thénardier watched his profits with an eagle eye and claimed his share, naturally. 

There was something for everyone. There was enough to feed on that some even manage to take care of their family. Clo-Clo, a rustic beauty with the innocent eyes of a farm girl, was officially the only servant of the inn but in reality its most profitable associate. She possessed the rare talent to wring the customers' wallets dry without incurring protests. Every night the woman arrived promptly at dusk and with great discernment, chose only lone travelers to sit with. She shared the drinks they paid for, convincing them to down glass after glass in the way only she knew how, and when the time was ripe she took them up to the top floor to "show them the facilities." Specially, beds. These tours were paid in addition to the overnight stay, of course. When work abounded, like tonight, she asked her cousin Lolotte for reinforcements, but only after the gullible men were too drunk to tell the difference between moles and warts the size of a chickpea. 

And such was the state of this den of thieves when a fiacre, drawn by two magnificent horses and exactly the kind rented by those with the means to travel in private, stopped at the front door. The innkeeper surveyed his crowded property in satisfaction and rubbed his hands as he decided on where to place his new guests. Outside, the rain had begun to fall in large drops: the evening was turning out to be perfect. 

Two impressive men entered. The portly one wore a police uniform so loose around his midsection that some thought it was stolen, while the taller one seemed to suffer from the cold as his hands were buried in his cuffs and the collar of his greatcoat was pulled up all the way to his hat. Were it not for the sound of his boots on the dusty floor, anyone could believe to be facing a ghostly apparition: dark top-hat and coat evenly levitating toward the bar. The vultures and wolves fell silent in anticipation as this man made his way to the center of the room and declared in an authoritative tone: "I seek the innkeeper Thénardier, temporary guardian of Cosette." 

Hidden in the shadows under an uneven table, the lark clutch her half-knitted sock to her chest and shuddered. Her name had just been uttered by the most physically imposing voice she had ever heard in her young life. She curled up, trying to disappear behind her knees as she was convinced that Beelzebub had come to claim her. 

This man, as the reader must have already guessed, was Javert. And his companion? Vasseur. 

"Oh Messieurs! I am Thénardier, welcome to my inn!" the innkeeper enthused as he virtually pried Clo-Clo out of the hands of an enamoured customer - by her buttock - and pushed her toward his newest customers. With a slimy smile he said from afar: “I know of no Cosette, you must mean Clo-Clo!” Noticing the obvious alarm on both men's faces, Thénardier immediately changed tactics. "Oh it is such a dreary and cold night to be traveling!" he lamented in sympathy, "I will install you next to the fireplace, where you can enjoy the warmth. Dinner is about to be served, why not just spend the night here?" Then, accepting the lack of response as agreement, he gestured for the lark to come clean the table. 

"There may have been a mistake somewhere, maybe we are at the wrong inn, but the man is right about something: the road will soon become a quagmire," Vasseur said, unable to hide his amusement at the way his chief brusquely discouraged the woman from sitting in his lap. "I could eat a good sausage and chips”, he muttered to his companion. Though Madame Vasseur had lovingly packed for him sandwiches to take on his trip, they did not last beyond the first day. 

" _Non_ , not a mistake. At least not our mistake," Javert replied somewhat cryptically. Vasseur followed his chief's gaze to two girls who had just come down the stairs. The elder one was bundled in an unfashionable coat, with frills sewed seemingly at random, and was slapping the younger girl with its attached mittens. During their two day trip Javert had already informed Vasseur on the situation, so Vasseur understood: that was the coat Fantine had sent in early Spring, and the girl was supposed to be gravely ill with fever. Vasseur cursed. 

"Warm yourself with some wine!" Clo-Clo cooed, still trying to attract Javert's attention. "Why the scowl, Monsieur? Have a chat with me!" 

Javert turned to face her. " _Bonsoir_. Open your mouth for an inspection." he commanded. 

After a split second of initial confusion, she closed her eyes with a knowing smile and leaned in with pursed lips, making kissing sounds. Some moments later she opened her eyes only to find Javert glaring at her. At this point, she decided that they were a waste of time and returned to her previous customer. Both secretly heaved a sigh of relief at the woman's departure, but alas, Thénardier had been watching them and would not allow them a moment's respite. "Clo-Clo not to your taste? No matter! Today's menu is a stew of _sausage_ " - he directed a sly smile at Vasseur as he drew out this word - "with onions and potatoes. I trust that you would like two portions?" 

"Merciful God! I will have a bowl." declared Vasseur. 

"Bread and cheese will be fine for me, Monsieur." Javert replied, frowning. With much suspicion he raised a hand to point at the girl in the coat, but before he could ask any questions the innkeeper had gone. 

"Didn't he say the meal of the day was _chicken à la crème_?" a man at the next table muttered, confused, but his drunk companion did not share his concern: "Who cares, it is probably chicken sausage…" the man managed, before ending his comment with a belch. 

Whatever it was - sausage, chicken, or chicken sausage - the orders were delivered quickly. Vasseur received a watery brown stew with solid chunks while Javert received a plate of dry bread and stale cheese. Their best attribute was that they were at least identifiable as what they claimed to be. 

"Well I should not have expected better presentation of the food in such a remote town," Vasseur muttered over the growl of his stomach. Determined to enjoy his meal, he forked up a hearty chunk out of his stew and carefully placed it onto his tongue, then allowed his eyelids to droop as he chewed into it. He chewed, and his face got red as he chewed some more. 

"Distinctive sausage, but a bit sinewy… " commented the rotund policeman to his traveling companion. 

An expression of uneasiness became plain on Javert's face as the taller man gestured with his gloved hand at the food over on the next table. The plates of _chicken à la crème_ were distinguishable from the sausage stew only by its color: its watery sauce was white, not brown. Vasseur spat out what he had not yet swallowed back into his bowl. 

"This…! What just happened to my mouth was highway robbery!" Vasseur sputtered, and then downed his glass of wine out of desperation. "It is a stain on French cuisine!" 

A pointed look silenced him. Vasseur never would have dreamt that he would live to see this day, but for once the unflappable chief inspector of Montreuil-sur-Mer actually seemed bewildered, even frightened, by the scene happening around them. Just ahead, pere Dadier was pulling cards out of his left sleeve and blatantly swapping cards out of the game. Clo-Clo was halfway up the stairs with a drunken man -- and by the way they were entangled, everyone could guess what was about to happen in the bedroom. Over at the bar one of the Belgians sharing a big plate of potatoes had just picked up a baby girl that was left to crawl unattended all over the place, unseen and unprotected from all the stomping boots. 

"Inspector Vasseur," the Javert said suddenly, the formalism in his tone completely out of place. "We are in the middle of a crime." 

"You mean this is a crime scene?" 

" _Non_ , I mean crimes are in progress around us. In the time it took me to speak this sentence, I have counted eight." 

"But what should we do now?" Vasseur slapped his thigh in exasperation, then turned his head nervously at a shout. Over at the card table a row had just broken out. People were cursing. 

"We must first speak to Cosette." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Literary license, Cosette was born in late 1815. Her father left Fantine in August 1817.  
> 2\. We know that Belgium did not exist as a country until 1830. But we found evidence that make us believe that the inhabitants of the Southern Netherlands (such was its name at the time) were called "Belgians." The word Belgian originated ~1620.  
> http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/Belgian?s=t
> 
> Page about Montfermeil: http://www.ville-montfermeil.fr/Le-centre-ville,148.html  
> The coucou: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coucou_(hippomobile)


	52. When the Law and Justice Align

When Vasseur expressed no second opinion, Javert considered the matter settled. His watchful eyes moved from his subordinate's chubby face over to the far side of the dining hall, where the girl wearing the coat Fantine sewed was still running about, with no signs of exhaustion. Though the blatant lie about the girl's illness strongly implied that she was kept only to wring the last _sou_ out of Fantine, the truth before his eyes was that the innkeeper had honored his agreement -- he fed the child, clothed the child, and even allowed the child to play freely during this busy night when both the innkeeper and his large-framed wife had been working non-stop in the bar and the kitchen. At the same time, the innkeeper had insisted that there was "no Cosette here". How can all of this be true? 

The formidable chief inspector of Montreuil-sur-Mer felt for the walnut in his pocket and, lost in memory for but a fleeting moment, traced the jagged lines carved into its surface with his gloved finger. He had learned in his youth that a criminal who broke the law once will break the law again. He set his jaw and rued how the relative peacefulness of Montreuil and his friendly relationship with Monsieur le Maire had dulled his mind. 

There was no reason to expect a single good thing to happen in this inn full of thieves. 

Javert scratched his whisker with his thumb and turned his attention to the very young maid knitting by the fire next to the table, who was currently doing an extremely poor job of acting like she had not been listening to his conversation with Vasseur. 

"Maid, go tell Cosette to come by," he said. The girl fixed her watery eyes on him and trembled, not giving any evidence that she understood. In Javert's eyes she was the picture of a stereotypical gamine, wearing what had once been a light dress for summer and which was now little more than rags, her bony legs and arms bared. To complete the set, she sheltered under a faded shawl full of holes, like her bonnet. “Go tell Cosette to come,” Javert repeated pointing at the girl in the brown and blue patchwork coat. 

Finally the girl reacted. She turned to look before turning back and wiping her eyes. "How do you know my name?" she sobbed. "Why do you say my name but point at Éponine?" 

"What? You are Cosette?" Vasseur interjected in horror, almost choking himself on the powder-dry piece of bread he was trying to swallow. 

All he managed was to scare Cosette out of her wits. She dropped her needlework and cowered behind her arms. "Yes Monsieur, did I do something wrong?" she asked, whimpering. "Did I say something wrong?" 

" _Non_ , child, you did not." Javert said calmly. The entire situation had become clear to him, as were the duties he must perform. "Listen to my question carefully," he said, "Why is Éponine wearing your coat when you don't even have a decent dress?" 

"That is not my coat." 

Javert nodded solemnly. "Then, child, only one more question. Are you sick?" When Cosette shook her head, the dark-skinned policeman studied her face in stillness and in silence. "Good," he declared finally. "You have been robbed, child, and your mother defrauded. Those who are responsible will be dealt with by the law." He spoke in a tone allowing not an ounce of doubt, and which bequeathed an almost reassuring quality to these tragic words. "You may go back to your knitting." 

Cosette peered back at him and Vasseur from behind her arms, pleasantly surprised that all the scary men wanted to do was speak to her. She relaxed her arms and did what was only natural for a child in her situation: ignore the words she did not understand and obey without second thought the command she did. 

Meanwhile over at the bar, Madame Thénardier set down a huge pot she carried out from the kitchen. She put her hands on her hips and griped to her husband, "Send that lazy child out to water the horses, did you see how she stopped knitting for so long?" To which the innkeeper responded, "No, my lovely wife, as long as Courgette keeps their attention they will not leave! Soon enough they will want to rent a room!" Capable of watching everything at the same time, as if he had four pairs of eyes, one on each side of his balding head, Monsieur Thénardier smiled as he watched the two men have what appeared to be a serious discussion. 

"Her name is not Courgette!" the woman insisted. "Who would name a girl after a gourd? It is Cosette!" But her words were not heard by the innkeeper, who was too absorbed chuckling under his breath and spinning the silver ring on his finger. He could almost feel the heft of the coins these men will place into his palm in the morning, so firm he was in his belief that his unexpected customers were debating whether to rent the suite for the night. 

In fact, what Vasseur said as soon as he had washed down the bread lodged in his throat was actually, "Chief, you must speak with discretion! That innkeeper Thénardier is watching us the same way you watch the vagabonds at the docks." The policeman seemed to be trying to simultaneously keep one eye in the direction of the bar and one across the table at the bread and cheese plate his chief had left neglected. Needless to say, he failed. Vasseur reached for the small wedge of cheese and lowered his voice. "We have no more authority here than any of these victims around us… if they hear you accuse them of being criminals, they can not only throw us out... they can accuse us of causing trouble on his property! Perhaps you should confront the innkeeper with Fantine's letter and then we can leave?" 

Javert shook his head. "This town may be too small to have its own police inspectors, but it is not too small for the law to be enforced. No town is." Something chill-inducing flashed in the chief inspector's blue-grey eyes. "I have a duty to Monsieur le Maire to retrieve the girl as quickly as possible, but because of this rain travel tonight is impossible. This leaves us until dawn to perform our duties to the King before we must depart for Paris with Cosette. Stop drinking and keep alert. We must collect evidence before I request an arrest warrant." 

The wine was by far the most palatable item in this inn, and the difficult to swallow food combined with the unobtrusive but diligent way the innkeeper prevented glasses from staying empty meant Vasseur was already nearing the end of his third glass. "Yes chief," Vasseur muttered, setting his glass aside. Together they watched with considerable consternation as Cosette climbed onto the stool vacated by a drunken customer led upstairs and, as if it were the most natural thing to do, proceeded to eat the leftovers from the plate. 

" _Putain_ (Fuck), what is that thing she is eating?" Vasseur gestured for the innkeeper and inquired in a carefully diplomatic tone, "Innkeeper, what meat did you use in this sausage?" Monsieur Thénardier attempted to refill his wine glass, which he declined. 

"Ah, the meat of young chickens and the finest pork loins, really, a bit of this and a bit of that, but only the finest!" the innkeeper answered. 

"But this tastes different than any chicken or pork I have ever had!" Only one who knew him well, as Javert did, could hear the note of horror which had infiltrated Vasseur’s voice as the man's imagination finally caught up with the reality of his situation. 

Thénardier leaned in towards Vasseur's ear and whispered, "Ah Monsieur, it is all about our secret marinade!" With a wide smile the innkeeper set the bottle of wine on the table and bowed low. "When you would like a room for the night, to properly digest your meal, perhaps, or simply because you want to for the roads to dry before resuming your travels, just give me a call! We have great rooms, well furnished!" Already able to tell that his last open room will be occupied, he walked away with a spring in his step, humming to himself. 

Javert gave a stern look to his trusted subordinate, who was left stunned by the way the innkeeper had handled his questioning while giving no incriminating information whatsoever. "Some years ago I received training as a spy. I will remain here and continue watching, you do what you must." With these words, the chief inspector of Montreuil-sur-Mer fastened the collar of his coat and allowed his eyelids to droop. To anyone who bothered to look, he appeared to be yet one more dozing customer. 

With perfect understanding of what his chief meant, Vasseur feigned boredom and tried to join Père Dadier’s card game. At first his uniform aroused suspicion, but none of the men at the table could resist the sight of the gold Louis shining in his hand. All his coins soon disappeared, and the policeman sought conversation with one of the drunken Belgians, who loudly declared his unconditional love for Clo-Clo while he praised her acrobatic skills. The beauty declined his marriage proposal and within seconds got to work on her sixth customer of the night, one of only the few customers still sitting. Certain that he had seen enough, Vasseur went in search of the innkeeper, made arrangements to stay overnight and headed up the stairs. At the landing overlooking the entire dining hall, Vasseur covertly signaled their room number with his fingers. Though he had stopped for only a few seconds, the message was understood. 

By this time the two girls who spent the evening playing had long since gone to bed, but hidden under a table Cosette was still knitting. Her head was sagging lower and lower while her tiny fingers struggled to grasp the slippery needles when a huge foot shoved her in the back. The child crawled out from her shelter and curled up at the feet of the beast. 

"You forgot to water the horses of the last _fiacre_! Go fetch water and then, out of my sight!" 

The child slipped out from the kitchen door, where she stopped only long enough to cover her head with her old shawl. Outside, it was still raining. The girl smiled. She picked up the buckets she had left by the washtub, now heavy with rain water, and made the familiar trip to the stable with terror distorting her young features. She did not know that concealed in the shadows of the building, a tall figure watched and protected her. 

By the time Javert re-entered the building, the scantily-clad women Clo-Clo and Lolotte were already halfway up the stairs dragging the last drunken customer between them. In sharp contrast to the outside air which had been cleansed by the heavy rain, the air inside the building was dense with snuff smoke and the robust nose of _Eau de vie_ (brandy). He had added considerably to the large puddle at the front door, but the innkeeper locked the door without bothering to mop it up. 

"Monsieur! I am sure you know your companion rented the bridal suite… it has the only oversized bed in town, large enough for both of you!" said the innkeeper, gesturing Javert to the stairs with enthusiastically. "Le Sergent de Waterloo is locked up for the night, but should you need anything, you will find us next door!" he continued, then not so stealthily reached for his wife's fleshy buttock. Javert grimaced. 

"Oooohh, Monsieur Thénardier!" the Madame breathed wantonly into the innkeeper's ear. "So naughty tonight!" as the two made their ways up the stairs. 

Javert found his writing pad and made a few quick notes before heading up the stairs himself. That was when he noticed Cosette sound asleep curled up in the little corner sheltered on three sides by the moldy wooden banister and the peeling walls. She had no blanket and no coat; the coat which rightfully belonged to her had been discarded by Éponine some time ago and now rested atop a pile of floor sweepings. Javert shook his head at this unacceptable state of affairs. He retrieved the coat and laid it over the small girl's body, certain that he had restored a little bit of justice. 

Then up the creaking old stairs he climbed, until he stopped in front of the door number, which he knocked. "It is Javert," he declared, over the string of curses he could hear clearly through the door. Soon enough the door opened revealing a flustered Vasseur. 

"They rented us a room with a chamber pot that had not been emptied! What are your orders? I must go find the outhouse…" 

"I have already seen enough to go request aid," Javert said, using noticeably more discreet wording than usual due to the way sound traveled through these walls. And so together they went back down the stairs again, with Vasseur brandishing a lit tallow candle from their room and Javert wielding the portable lantern he retrieved from his saddlebag. "The front door is locked, try the kitchen." The chief inspector gestured towards the door behind which they had seen the innkeeper's wife disappear many times. 

Kitchen inspections had always been Vasseur's favorite part of his job, especially on days he was forced to fast because his chief confiscated part of his lunch. As they navigated around the tables and chairs to the partially open door, Vasseur imagined that he could find behind it some remnants of dry sausage, the greasy kind which remain delicious far longer than cheese and bread. This was until Javert pushed opened the door and some small creatures, too small to be the kittens he wished them to be, scurried between his legs. Suddenly he dreaded to enter. 

" _Oui_ , there is an unlocked side door, with a tall pile of trash just outside it," came his chief's voice. "Inspect this kitchen and the outhouse while I am gone. The only way this could be worse is if they wrote the word "VIOLATION" across the wall." 

Skittishly poking his head and candle past the door, the policeman scared out of his hunger saw in the flickering light an expanse of sauce-splattered walls and dirty pans caked with burnt pieces of food. In one corner sat barrels of what was likely more of the wine which was stretching his bladder. 

The sound of heavy rain suddenly became very immediate and Vasseur looked up. His chief had already disappeared out the far door, into the downpour which was drowning everything, including even Javert's usually loud and clear voice. "Uncleaned trash outside this door, also the outhouse." 

Vasseur had no option but to cross the kitchen. Gathering his courage, he walked past the cupboards until he saw the monstrous meat grinder which was hidden behind a large stock pot. A flock of black insects emerged from the pieces of meat stuck to the machine, avoiding light. He was not Javert, as there were still things able to make him ill. He ran desperately toward the outhouse, and when he sauntered past the caped form marching steadily towards the gate, he called out, "I am not scared, I am going to inspect the outhouse first…!" 

Judging from Inspector Javert's humph, the lie must not have fooled him but this did not make him stop or even slow down. If this man had one weakness, it was in his unswerving belief in the system: yes, sometimes there were criminals but none could ever have their way for long against France's army of law enforcement. He expected no trouble at all finding his way to the gendarmes stationed in neighboring town Chelles, which he knew held jurisdiction over this town. Perhaps this was why his disappointment was paramount when he exited the inn's front gate to find a deserted street, dark and with the only sounds of life being the occasional chirp of crickets and, from the forest, the plaintive howl of a wolf. Not a single sign of the town's night guards he expected to be on patrol. 

In almost any other situation, he would not hesitate to enlist the help of a random local for directions, but all the locals he had met back in the inn were criminals, not to be trusted. Not having any better ideas, he picked a direction at random and walked down the path in the pouring rain. His boots sunk into the muddy dirt path with every step, almost suctioning his feet to the ground. Everything was shrouded in darkness beyond the immediate vicinity of his lamp. He felt cold, especially on his lower arms, where the wind crept up the sleeves of his coat. 

It was during this difficult situation that those traitorous thoughts which had been troubling him for the past months resurfaced. His heart, which was pounding while all the criminal activity was happening in plain sight, slowed down. Suddenly it did not seem to make sense anymore, why he was in a town where he knew no one, trying to do a duty that someone else had neglected to do. Could this kind of thing be what made Monsieur le Maire stop wanting to hug in the first place? He did not know. 

For several long minutes that night in Montfermeil, he was a tall shadow stopped dead in the middle of the road, the rain cascading down from the brim of his top hat like a glistening, turbulent veil. Not until, as if by divine providence, a bright flash of lightning illuminated the entire sky and lifted his head. He had seen a row of houses. 

He stopped in front of the first one he found with a lamp hanging at its front door, the sign of a property owner who cared about the safety of passersby. Digging through his soaked pocket, he held out his badge then knocked on door. " _Bonsoir_ , Monsieur. I am Chief inspector Javert from the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer, two day's travel north of here. I need directions to the gendarmes barrack in Chelles." 

The farmer who answered the door rubbed his eyes with one hand and pointed towards the forest with his other. "Follow that path, don't turn off from it, and it will take you there. It is the only military building in town, easy to identify during the day." 

" _Merci_ , I will also need to rent a saddled horse for police business, for one franc per hour, and it will be returned by dawn." 

"Help yourself to one in the barn and just return it there when you are finished." 

" _Merci et Bonne nuit_ (Thank you and good night)," he said with a slight bow. The man startled back a step when the rainwater on the brim of Javert's hat splashed onto his bare feet, and muttered something not too friendly as he shut the door. 

After progressing through the damp forest at a speed slower than his usual walk, guided only by the light of his lantern and those of the stars which penetrated the thick canopy of leaves, Javert glimpsed light beyond the silhouette of gnarly trunks. The trees thinned away as the path led him straight to the center of the town, and soon he came across a squat building with barred windows and surrounded by a solid stone wall topped by an iron fence. The empty flagpole which now swayed stripped of the white flag of the kingdom, identified it as a barracks. 

With a skillful tug on the reins he steered his mount through the open gate. The gendarme on duty there remained rooted in place, only pointing back with his service pistol. Perhaps the man could not tell whether the figure who had just emerged from the road to the forest, whose feet left prints of mud and whose coat was covered with damp fallen leaves, was a mythical creature or a man. It did not matter: Javert dismounted and marched up to the barrel of the gun, until he could hold both his badge and his lamp right in front of the gendarme's face. Finally the soldier squinted at the writing on the circular badge and read what it said: Javert, _Officier de Paix_. 

This young man of twenty-six years had never before seen an Officier de Paix, and would have considered the rank alone enough reason to obey the visitor's every word. The fact that this man Javert had found his way to this tiny town in such inclement weather must mean it was an emergency. He accepted the reins Javert put into his hand and stepped out of the way. 

The chief inspector helped himself into the building, the sodden skirt of his coat slapping into first the door and then his legs, each time sending a swirl of leaves fluttering to ground. "Javert, Officier de Paix, Chief Inspector of Montreuil-sur-Mer. I must see your captain." he said, and the gendarme at the front desk promptly pulled the rope hanging from the wall, ringing a bell on the upper floor. Not a minute later, a sergeant came down the side stairs buttoning his uniform jacket hastily. Somewhere in the building, a young child began to cry. Once the captain, an irascible old man with bushy mustache, descended from the stairs, the rest that remained to be done were things he could do in his sleep. 

It took Javert less than two minutes to make his case for the arrest warrant, then approximately thirty seconds more to arrange for the captain to for a magistrate for the proper signatures, while Javert will seek the collaboration of the victims who, naturally, would be eager to leave the inn at the break of dawn. 

With a goodbye and a reminder that the captain should bring the cart along in the morning, Javert shook the water from his hat and put it back on. Then he stepped back out into the rain. 

\--- 

Back at the inn, Vasseur had finally returned to the bridal suite and was eying the large bed longingly. After spending two days cramped inside a diligence with Javert and now working way past his bedtime, he felt that a short nap would be a just reward for his troubles. Perhaps even his boss would agree. 

He cautiously nudged the antique-looking bed with his knee before throwing his full weight onto it, and was alarmed by the loud creak that caused. Suspicious because it sounded as if some piece of wood had cracked, Vasseur bent down against the complaint of his belly and put an arm under the bed frame, trying to figure out whether any pieces had fallen off. 

“Ah, _les salauds_ (bastards)!”, he exclaimed, when bed bugs began to crawl up his arm. While he scrubbed his arm desperately in at the enameled washbasin, a terrible thump coming from a nearby room shook the ground. Could it be that every piece of furniture in this entire building was faulty? Some time later, when he opened the door to let in Javert, every single piece of furniture in the room had been overturned: bed, bucket, table, and chair. The chief inspector simply nodded at the scene in front of him, as if thoroughly satisfied. 

"Please tell me we will have an arrest warrant, because I already filled up my notepad," Vasseur said holding up his notepad's filled last page, really not expecting any answer from his boss other than "yes". Once Javert nodded again, the rotund policeman sighed in relief and began a long, almost incoherent rant: "Let me report to you, that trash got washed by the rain all across the courtyard, and the outhouse! I could not use it without breathing only through my mouth and keeping my eyes shut, I could not tell when it was last cleaned. And the kitchen…" When Javert lifted a dripping arm to gesture for him to stop, he became a bit confused and asked more hesitantly, "Oh… did you already know all of this? But you must not know yet that your travel reading," - he pointed at the copy of The Battle of Waterloo: One Afternoon in Two Thousand Pages laid open on the small section of the floor still visible in the midst of all the toppled furniture - "confirmed that Thénardier is a liar! The general he claimed he saved at Waterloo wasn't actually at Waterloo!" 

"Remember, Vasseur, that a man who is dishonest about one thing will lie about another thing. I am not surprised. Take my notes and combine it with yours to make an official list of charges." 

Vasseur extended his arms out from his sides as if showing he was not to blame. "Where?" he asked, and when Javert pointed at the mattress resting against the chair in response, he laughed. "I am not asking where to rest my rear while writing, even though I must admit that the mattress is a safer place to sit than the chair nailed together from moldy wood… I mean what should I write it on?" 

"And I mean the bedsheet," the chief inspector clarified. He withdrew two coins from his coin purse totaling fifteen sous and laid it on the overturned washbasin. "I will be back in an hour and we will review it," he said as he exited the room leaving a trail of water in his wake. 

Javert went downstairs and checked on Cosette. Despite the persistent cry of a baby somewhere, the child was sleeping soundly, still nestled inside her coat. Placing onto the mantle another ten sous piece, he added a pair of thick logs to the dying fire and then waited patiently for the flames to grow. Then he removed his gloves and his coat, dragging a table as near to the fire as he could without risk of needing to arrest himself for arson, and squeezed out his garments before laying them flat. A dark stain had spread along the collar of his uniform, where his ponytail rested; in one fluid motion, he untied the ribbon, shook his head and let his hair spread over his shoulders in long, dark unruly waves. And he walked closer to the fire, so much so that the flames could almost lick his chest. Heat began to enter the wet clothes clinging to his body, and brought the memory of powerful arms and a night without cold. 

That way he remained for the rest of the hour, until he redressed himself to return upstairs. This was one of the rare instances since the days of Toulon when he had ever taken off his greatcoat in public, yet no one had witnessed it. 

No one except for Cosette, who peeked from a gap in the banister and then went back to sleep. 

**\---**

****  


It was almost dawn when the hag Thénardier went downstairs scratching her tousled bun and kicked Cosette out of her hiding place. The girl ran to light some candles and rubbed her eyes as if confused why there were already two customers seated at a table. But she had no time for delay, as the morning rush had already begun: drivers outside shouted the imminent departure of their vehicles while the stairs groaned under the combined weight of hungover, barely awake guests sauntering down, guided by the scent of the strong coffee being served. Soon a crowd began to form at the bar, formed by travelers stunned by the prices they had been charged. 

In the chaos of bodies and shouts and accusations, no one noticed when the taller of the two seated guests nodded at the uniformed policeman. But everyone noticed when this policeman walked to the door and blocked it with his body. But before they could begin to complain, the tall man who now stood in the middle of the room with a large roll of cloth tucked under his arm, began to speak. His authoritative voice commanded their obedience. "I am Javert, Officier de Paix, here at the request of Monsieur le Maire of Montreuil sur Mer. Crimes have occurred on these premises and I am here with an arrest warrant. The criminals know who they are, and if you are not one of them, there is no reason for panic." 

Then Javert reached into both of his coat pockets and turned them inside-out. It was as if the hellish rain of the night before had come indoors -- except what was falling was not water, it was manacles. 

The first to react were Madame Thénardier, who approached him menacingly wielding her axe, and Monsieur Thénardier, who submitted his calculated appeal, "Montreuil-sur-Mer? That it is far away! A long journey, indeed. Take a seat and enjoy your coffee, _Monsieur le policier_. On the house." They were ignored. 

Javert unfurled the giant roll of cloth, the tail of which rolled across the dirty floor, and continued to speak. "The innkeeper Thénardier, you will pay attention to your charges. Seven counts of fraud: sale of adulterated foods*, sale of tallow candles as wax candles, lack of a set of weights to weigh bread, rent of rooms with broken furniture and charging those customers for breaking that furniture, charging customers for water. Two years imprisonment and fine of 1015f." Shocked gasps travelled the room at this astronomical sum, enough to shutter any business, yet Javert pressed on relentlessly. "...Complicity in illegal gambling and illegal prostitution, facilitating corruption in the youth. Two and a half years imprisonment and fine of 6500f." 

Père Dadier pushed Clo-Clo aside on his race to the door, trying to shove his way past Vasseur. It was impossible. A murmur spread among the customers. Many of them ducked their heads in shame. 

Meanwhile, Javert's voice continued to ring forth: "Five counts of failure to clean: the oven, chimneys, outhouse, and trash next to the door and washed out into the street, fine of 20f. One count of failure to maintain records of your overnight guests, fine of 10f. Finally, one count of failure to produce a child in your care, Cosette, both to her rightful guardian, Fantine. Ten years in a house of corrections." 

"For the wife of the innkeeper, Thénardier, one count of theft at night in an inhabited house, of this gentleman's tie pin," he declared, turning to gesture at a rapt listener to his right. Realizing immediately that he was the one being referred to, the man shouted helpfully: “I paid for it 50 francs.” Javert thanked the man for his collaboration and continued "... for this the woman Thénardier will serve 10 years in a house of corrections. The innkeeper will be fined the value of the pin, 50f. For the card player Dadier, one count of fraud. The maids Clo-Clo and Lolotte are required to report to me for an age inspection. That is all." 

In response he only received stunned silence. Vasseur turned to the courtyard and announced fraud charges for the drivers, then threatened additional charges should they leave their customers behind. Seconds after his voice fell came the mass clamor for justice. A man gave a kick to his chair while rising. At the adjoining table four other individuals rose. A bottle crashed against the nearby bar and soon after, their table and all its contents followed. As one man, the remaining customers stood. Javert was well acquainted with this situation: it was when faces lose their humanness to become masks whose expression was invariably anger. Here as elsewhere. He allowed the innkeeper, who was feigning wide-eyed innocence, to hide behind him from the on-rushing crowd. 

"The weight of the law had not yet fallen," Javert declared. "Few of the violations I announced will be charged without your testimony. The gendarme are soon to arrive, and you will vent your anger with them." Then men stopped, murmured among themselves and began to head for the door. Vasseur stepped aside at Javert's signal and allowed them to pass, of course Dadier was already manacled and Clo-Clo, Lolotte were kept behind. Outside, the footsteps of a large number of horses became audible. 

The mention of the gendarmerie worked a transformation in Thénardier. So far, he had believed to be the victim of a ruse Fantine’s new lover, the one who now paid all the bills, even the juiciest, without complaining. His expression was now that of a man who just realized the severity of his error. Whatever amount of the ten thousand francs of fines were promised to the damned policeman for his arrest, he was sure he could outbid it. " _Monsieur le policier_ ," the innkeeper entreated, putting both his finest manners and his oily smile on display, "I assure you there had been a great misunderstanding! You said you came for Cosette -- you may have her! She was sick and she caused trouble but I will not charge you for any of it, God up high knows I have been charitable! Why not save each other some trouble?" Up to Javert's disinterested face he dangled from his fingers a coin purse which appeared about to burst. "And this! _Monsieur le policier_ , use this to make your trip home to Montreuil-sur-Mer more comfortable!!" 

"None of those things belong to you, and they are not yours to give away," Javert responded coldly. "Even if they were, I do not take bribes.” He showed a sealed paper right in front of the fraudster’s terrified eyes: A power of attorney by which Fantine authorized him to bring back Cosette. 

Soon the sound of horses came to a stop and a horde of gendarmes entered the inn. This was far bigger than any arrest any man in the brigade had participated in, and so the entire brigade, down to the sentry boys, showed up. One by one, they tipped their bicornes at Javert. 

“Monsieur le Capitaine, it is all a misunderstanding!” Thénardier plead desperately to the man who wrestled his wrists into a pair of manacles. "If you let me go I will give you a hundred francs!" It seemed he was unable to decide between begging for mercy and trying to bribe his way to freedom. 

Javert stooped low to roll back up the bedsheet of crimes, and as he handed it to the Captain, he turned to Thenardier and humphed, "Truly this is every single article applicable to innkeepers! Isn't it too bad that I could give you no prize for violating them all?" He remained unmoved by the poisonous glare the innkeeper aimed at him. "Do not worry, I will recommend the maximum sentence for every single one of your charges. _Au revoir_ (Goodbye)." Just as he said this, the Thénardier children Éponine and Azelma were taken by the guards to be transported on horseback while the innkeeper's wife was shackled, kicking and screaming, to the large prisoner cart. Her hopeless, helpless howl failed to elicit any sympathy. 

Javert followed the crowd out of the building. "Open your mouths for an inspection!" Javert demanded to the women held by Vasseur by their arms. Then, performing his task quickly, he concluded, "This one by the name of Clo-Clo is underage. Take her to the cart!" 

After handing the two women over to a gendarme lieutenant, Vasseur and Javert walked over to Cosette, who was wandering the crowds of people awaiting to give testimony. She was looking to the door of the inn, which was being locked by the gendarme captain, then glancing around the crowds anxiously. She was crying. 

"What is the matter?" Vasseur asked with a smile. "Your mother misses you and we are taking you to her." But this did not calm her. She wiped her eyes and refused to be picked up. 

"Where is Gavroche?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Law of 22 July 1791 about adulterated, spoiled or harmful edibles. The fine is essentially founded on the rental value of the dwelling of the taxpayer. This would have required an approximate assessment of his income. We used a fine of 500f for simplicity.
> 
> http://www.napoleon-series.org/research/government/france/penalcode/c_penalcode1.html  
> \- Length of sentences: Article 21 (réclusion)  
> \- Penalty inflicted upon those who, being entrusted with a child, shall not produce it to the persons who have a right to claim it: Article 345  
> \- Penalty for theft, aggravating circumstances: Article 386  
> Other articles of interest: 73, 318, 334, 410, 475, 477 and specially, 471.  
> To know more about the French Gendarmerie: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gendarmerie_nationale_fran%C3%A7aise  
> http://resohab.univ-paris1.fr/jclh05/article.php3?id_article=36  
> An ancient gendarmerie brigade: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Le_couvent_des_dames_de_la_Retraite_%C3%A0_Quimper_%28Caserne_de_gendarmerie_au_d%C3%A9but_du_XXe_si%C3%A8cle%29.jpg  
> Chelles: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chelles  
> Diligence: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diligence


	53. No Better Man

"I can't find Gavroche anywhere, Monsieur customer!" The frail girl sobbed, her tears dripping onto Vasseur's boots. "Do you know where he is?" 

"Calm down, Cosette. Who is Gavroche?" 

"Gavroche is the baby…" 

The large policeman stood up and glanced down each of the lines formed in the courtyard. No one was carrying a baby in their arms. "Attention!" He shouted, raising one hand high above the crowd to make himself known. "Your attention please, Messieurs, Mesdames, a baby is missing!" 

Immediately the buzz of angered, curse-laden testimonies and confused mutterings of locals drawn to the scene died down as everyone stopped what they were doing to search around them. But there was no baby to be found, not until a rap of Javert's cane against the washtub commanded even the horses into a temporary silence. Then they all heard it: the cry of a very young child, hoarse and barely audible through the locked doors of the inn. 

"Damn it, people, who was so desperate to flee that they forgot about their own child?" The captain demanded, anger and disgust thickening his voice. At his gesture one of his men rushed to go unlock the door. Nearby on the prisoner cart, Thénardier's eyes went wide while his wife was slack-jawed in realization. 

By the time the crying baby in a purple dress was carried into the crowd, with its reddened cheeks taking on a bluish hue and no more tears coming out of its puffy eyes, the aggrieved locals were already crowded around the Thénardiers. Now that the innkeeper's criminal ways had been exposed, even the inn's most loyal customers raced to distance themselves. "Isn't that baby you two's third child? Most nights I see it crawling around the inn!" snapped a man who had arrived holding a hammer. 

The innkeeper shook his head stubbornly, struggling to make his voice heard above the roar of the crowd. "No, that kid is not our... impossible! Who are you to tell me which child came out of my wife?!" 

A rising murmur of disbelief rose from the crowd. This was when Javert parted them to approach the innkeeper, his disdain visible on the sneer twisting his lips. “It is one more crime on your list to leave a child in your care unattended. Show the child's papers and do not waste everyone's time -- if this baby is not yours, is this another child you had been using to extort money?!” 

The innkeeper's mouse-like eyes scanned the crowd for a single friendly face and found none. "You accuse the innocent, _Monsieur le policier_!" He paused dramatically. "This baby does not have papers! We found him abandoned and took it in out of the kindness of our hearts, just like how we tried to help out Fantine. Oh, this world does not reward generosity! You can have him!” Beside him, his monstrous wife cowered under the condemning glare of the crowd and nodded desperately. 

"... him? This is a boy?" demanded a member of the crowd. 

"Yes! Abandoned boy!" Thénardier retorted. 

In the absence of proof, Javert could not contradict this claim despite not believing it in the least. This left the captain with no choice but to declare the child's destination to be the orphanage in Chelles before his full attention was required to control the growing crowd of observers. Eventually the restless Gavroche ended up in the arms of a very young gendarme who was dismayed that this largest arrest in his career had more crying babies than flying bullets. 

\--- 

When the ensuing chaos had somewhat calmed down -- the diligence sent on its way and most of the voyeuristic crowd driven away -- Vasseur found his chief standing guard at the gate, using his cane to block an opportunistic climber. He walked up and, after checking to make sure he was not distracting his boss at a critical time, cleared his throat. "Chief, they say they will take that boy Gavroche to the local orphanage…" 

"It is the standard procedure for an abandoned child." responded the chief inspector. 

"No -- I mean, yes…! Yes you are right, of course, but what I mean is, we are soon to ride in a fiacre to Montreuil, and everyone knows we have one of the nicest orphanages in the region." Vasseur stepped out of the way of the gendarme escorting the man and then, finally, he had Javert's full attention. "A place where Monsieur le Maire makes sure every child is well clothed, well fed, and well taught. Why not bring the child back with us?" 

“The reason is simple: Monsieur le Maire's instructions were to bring back Cosette, not Cosette and another child,” Javert answered. The statement was brusque but the tone was patient. 

“Well…!" Vasseur exclaimed, making a gesture with his hands which meant. "Chief, you know I always respect your decisions, but this time I disagree with you because this boy looks like he may not even be a year old, and we just arrested both of his parents! We have more than enough space in the fiacre, and taking him with us is such a simple thing to do to make his life better." 

"His parents are criminals. Losing them is not a misfortune." Javert said, drawing out his pause as his gaze found the baby in question. Then he turned to his subordinate and continued pensively, "I have known many orphans. It does not matter which orphanage he is sent to, what is important is that he will be raised until he can choose how to live his life. The orphanage here in Chelles will manage this, do not be concerned." When his subordinate continued to shake his head in disagreement, Javert frowned. 

Vasseur was at a loss. Everyone in the MsM police knew their chief as a man with no family and virtually no friends, who at times lacked empathy. But in practice this unfortunate personality trait, this single weakness in a man whom by all other measures was the ideal chief of police, had never led to a single act of cruelty. At least in his opinion, not until now. It was time to try a different tactic. "I do not know the Maire as well as you, but I am sure the Maire will not mind that we bring this child back. Do you think he will?” Vasseur asked calmly. 

“ _Non_. By my observations, Monsieur le Maire's reaction to this child will be to gift him a toy.” 

"Then do you think Gavroche would end up worse if he were raised in the orphanage in Montreuil?” 

Javert's gaze got lost in the distance only a moment; just long enough to make his expression soften. “ _Non_. Monsieur le Maire will make this orphaned child feel wanted.” 

Vasseur had no idea what was going through his boss's head; maybe the man remembered some crime trivia which drew his attention elsewhere, maybe his recent friendship with the maire was making him more reasonable. Whatever the cause, the change of heart was written plainly on the usually severe face. “Then there is no reason not to bring him," ventured Vasseur. 

“We will take him. I will handle the paperwork with the Captain.” 

The chubby policeman smiled as he rubbed his grumbling belly. They will do a good deed this morning. It was not the same as eating a breakfast, but maybe, just maybe, he could convince himself that this was better. 

\- 

Their return trip was planned around the possibility that they could be traveling with a very sick girl requiring frequent stops, so in a way Vasseur was right: bringing Gavroche was as simple as boarding the fiacre with him. After a last stop inside the inn for Cosette's coat and a few diaper clothes for Gavroche, they waved goodbye. But departing Montfermeil was only the first step in a two day journey... 

Only three hours had passed when they stopped at nearby Aulnay-sous-bois, at an inn recommended by their driver for the early lunch Vasseur so desired. There, they were seated as odd party indeed: two large men flanking a tiny, fretful girl and a baby. There, their waiter glared at them as he tapped his fingers against his hips impatiently, waiting for Javert to complete the order. 

After a minute of awkward silence which got Vasseur squirming in his seat, the waiter began to recite the menu again. It was at this point that Javert raised a hand to stop the young man, before announcing with typical authoritative air: "For me, bread and cheese. For the girl, a bowl of what children should eat." 

Vasseur tried to hide his face. It was not yet noon of the first day. 

It was some consolation that they were neither short of money nor time - Madeleine had given to Javert enough money to cover the amount Thénardier claimed was still owed and then some, totaling a full two thousand francs of which only a few francs had been spent - so both Vasseur and Cosette were able to eat a second portion. After settling back into the fiacre, Vasseur loosened the button of his trousers and made the mistake of placing Gavroche on the ground instead of his overfull stomach. Within minutes it became clear that their sedan, a six-seater large enough for Cosette to sleep laying down and be seen to by a doctor, was too spacious: Gavroche had an unfortunate tendency to crawl under seats and hide in corners. 

When in response to this Javert instituted children-watch duty, Vasseur enlisted Cosette's help to keep the baby entertained, at least until he could finish digesting. The tiny girl, still stunned by the sudden changes in her life, was eager to oblige and took the baby to the window with her, where they pointed at the trees which passed with frightening speed. Gavroche giggled and smacked his lips, until suddenly an offensive smell filled the sedan. Then Gavroche cried. 

Javert hit the wall of the fiacre to notify their driver to stop, and soon after, found himself standing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, holding a dirty diaper by a corner. 

"Should I wash it, like the Madame tells me to?" Cosette asked, gazing up at the tall man in awe. 

"There is no water." replied the chief inspector. After some deliberation - he's expression was quite pained by the end of it - he sunk the pointed end of his cane into the dirt and dug out a hole, into which he tossed the stained cloth and its contents. While shoveling dirt into the hole with his boot, he commented to the wide-eyed girl, "It is against the law to litter." 

Back in their moving vehicle and sulking, Javert asked for the baby from Vasseur and proceeded to gesture at Gavroche, first pointing at the baby's behind then lowering his head to allow the tiny reaching hands to grab into his whiskers and pull. "Is this the signal?" he asked the excited baby. Gavroche laughed and wiggled his head. 

On the road toward Amiens that afternoon bemused travelers passed a large fiacre drawn by six horses which lumbered forward, stopped and started and stopped and started. One even kindly asked whether they needed help, which Javert declined. More mounds of dirt will soon appear along the rest of the path to Montreuil. Each with a dirty diaper, and some of them, also a few strands of whiskers. 

Night did not come soon enough for either men at the end of the long day, and Cosette tried to huddle under her ill-fitting coat while watching Gavroche with some envy -- the baby was cozily nestled inside the front flaps of Vasseur's uniform jacket, and was sleeping soundly. Javert frowned at the pleading looks she was sending his way, but nonetheless unbuttoned his own coat and allowed her in. He wrapped an arm around her and she slept, while Javert closed his eyes and saw the eyes of Monsieur Madeleine, the way they were that night during one of the short pauses in between kisses, watching him. He held the girl closer. 

\--- 

In Montreuil-sur-Mer, the town's esteemed Maire sat at his desk and rubbed at the knot which had settled into his neck days ago. His body had always been robust, capable of even the wildest of demands, yet now it seemed to fight against him. Perhaps one of the days which were now behind him was the one when he finally grew old. Too many nights spent laying in pain, too many nightmares. Since Javert's departure, both had worsened. 

Javert’s last letter, delivered to him only yesterday, reported on both Cosette's condition and Thénardier's years-long scheme using a few choice words. It sent him tumbling headlong in a trip through facets of the human soul still unknown to him, because the truth was laid bare before his eyes: for years the young woman Fantine was robbed of every single paycheck, right there, right under his watch. He did not know because he never bothered to ask her whether she needed anything. Even if he did not compound his mistake by dismissing her, even if she had worked here for another ten years, he would still never have asked. 

All this time, while he tried to honor the teachings of the Bishop Myriel by simple giving coins and giving advice whenever he was asked, he was sinning. He had left a young child to starve. An eighth child, to add to the seven already on his conscience, all because he did not have the courage to seek out the misery born of desperation, the kind which hid under a cloak of silence and fear. To add to his grave sin he had sent another man - the one dearest to him - to confront a brazen criminal and right his wrongs. It was reckless and selfish. Like the Jean Valjean of the Bagne so many years ago, the respectable Maire of Montreuil-sur-Mer suffocated under the invisible claw of guilt, shame, and fear, latching onto his throat. 

He had paid a visit to the widow Beaumont, apologized to her about Javert's trip and informed her of the party's estimated arrival. He had also paid a visit to Fantine. He hastened to notify Fantine, and choked on his words as he relayed the information in the letter. But as soon as the woman knew her daughter safe, she collapsed at his feet in a heap of tears and incomprehensible babbling. She said nothing but words of gratitude, but only after he had seen that guilt in her eyes, that same one he remembered seeing on Jeanne. The expression of a mother who knew her child was suffering. He lifted her to her feet with a lump in his throat, and walked away knowing himself to be the worst scoundrel upon the face of the earth. 

Now both of them were waiting in the lobby, along with Vasseur's wife and children. And although he did not regret his decision to invite the widow, he was uncomfortable, almost intimidated by her presence. Madeleine imagined her eyes rising to his face and discovering there all that he concealed carefully. 

A chorus of approaching hoof clacks on cobblestone followed by neighs and calls by the driver for people to yield to the large fiacre announced the arrival long before the vehicle pulled to a stop. Madeleine deliberately lingered in his office even when the first cries of joy reached his ears; first, Vasseur's children, and then Fantine, calling out for Cosette. 

Instead of walking out the door, he pulled back the curtains and gazed out the window. His eyes immediately found the tall man in the top hat from the small crowd down in the Mairie's public square, and he watched as the chief inspector unbuttoned his coat in front of Fantine, to reveal the tiny blonde head of a girl tinier than her age of six would suggest. 

Madeleine made his way down the stairs, his footfalls alternating heavy and light, heavy and light. He got down to the landing just in time to see Javert speak a few words to the waiting widow, and then abruptly turn towards the Mairie, towards him. Their eyes met. 

"Monsieur le Maire, Cosette is with Fantine, and the boy Gavroche had been handed to the nun." 

"I know. And thank you, Monsieur… Javert." 

The policeman bowed in a way which struck Madeleine as gallant, and which left him reeling with need to reach out and comb back an errant strand of black hair dangling distractingly down one side of Javert's face. But he did not. 

"Here is the money leftover, some was spent on food and clothing." The policeman placed into his open palm a neatly folded stack of notes held in a pin, which looked untouched from what he had placed into Javert's pocket days ago. 

"You paid not even a sou to Thénardier?" Madeleine asked in surprise. 

The chief inspector nodded. "Not a sou. A ten year sentence." 

The Maire lowered his eyes and nodded in return. He did not know the words to convey his thoughts, in fact he did not know which of his thoughts he wished to burden Javert with. Raising his hand he waved the widow to them, and then, putting a smile on his face before he turned to Javert, gestured for the man to go to the woman who had come to the mairie just to welcome him back. 

"You must be tired," he whispered. "Go home to rest, we will speak tomorrow." 

He watched silently as Javert approached the widow and asked for a hug in that hesitant, timid manner which in no way befitted a man of the chief inspector's fearsome reputation. A flush colored the dainty widow's cheeks, hinting at the beauty she possessed ten years prior, as she stiffly leaned in to the coat and the man underneath it. Madeleine turned his back and loosened the cravat around his neck. 

That chilling sensation of being watched, which everyone reacted to but which frightened the imposteur Monsieur Madeleine a million-fold, made him turn again. But it was not the widow who was watching him; by all appearances she was beginning to relax into the hug. 

It was Javert. 

\--- 

After escorting the widow home and bidding her farewell at the door, Javert went back to his room and locked the door. Then he did a few knee raises to stretch his long legs and his stiff rear before he stooped down to start his stove. As the fire warmed he once again returned to a seated position in front of his desk. There was a letter he needed to write. 

****  


_Monsieur le Secrétaire du Préfet Chabouillet,_

_I had just completed a task for the Maire. In the process of it I have encountered the most_ _depraved and shameless_ _businessman. A man who would sell the entire country of France for a single sou. His name is Thénardier._

_Javert, Inspecteur Chef_ _à Montreuil-sur-Mer._

****  


Inside the jail of the barracks in Chelles, in a dark holding cell, Monsieur Thénardier sneezed into Madame's face. Under the flickering light of the guard post, he closed his eyes to all the writing on his bed sheet of crimes and covered himself reluctantly. Then he muttered about plans of escape... 


	54. Heartfelt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers: With this chapter we are finally nearing what I consider the second act of this story, with an event of major consequences happening next chapter. Act three is all the things I am sure everyone is waiting for -- a future where Valjean does not live a life in hiding, does not die heartbroken and alone. Javert does not realize his errors too late, does not see no option but to end up in the bottom of the river. We already have a rough idea of the plot all the way to the end. Unfortunately recently for both of us real life issues arose which greatly limits the amount of hours we can write. So updates will be slow. We try our best.
> 
> By the way, I consider the last scene in this chapter a very good sample of the relationship we hope to write for them. 
> 
> -fengxiaoj and groucha

An old shoe, its sole worn only under the big toe, squeaked as it was dragged across the stoneware-tiled church floor. It betrayed the presence of a man impure in heart.  


Self-conscious, Madeleine lengthened his stride towards the confession booth. The small, nondescript wooden door had no right to be daunting and yet, opening it, his resolve faltered. What good was the forgiveness granted to a partial confession? It would only be a comfort to the extent that empty words can be: as an illusion. It would not be worth the breath with which it was spoken. He squeezed his eyes shut, refused to continue thinking and then, he knelt. The door closed softly behind him. The words drilled into him since childhood came to his lips naturally -- though that did not mean they were easy to speak. 

"Hail Mary Most Pure," he whispered, and was promptly acknowledged: "Conceived without sin." Monsieur le Curé’s (priest) voice was muffled by the wooden lattice and the quiet gloom. 

"I do not remember when I last confessed." It was the truth. Jean Valjean, the sinner, could not confess. And Madeleine, the man whose existence was dedicated to the penance of those sins, had thought himself a vast improvement until now. 

"Continue." 

"I confess..." Madeleine glanced at the bearded profile cast in sharp contrast onto the screen partition by a candle on the other side. Did he trust that he could not be identified by voice when another living, breathing man was listening to him speak? Was he putting at risk the persona of the respected Maire Madeleine, his only shelter in this world? Although he could see the priest covering his eyes and his forehead in meditation, and even though he knew himself protected by the secrecy of confession, Madeleine shivered. Thankfully, his voice was not Javert's -- that man would get himself recognized at the word 'hail'. He smiled despite himself. 

"My son, we can review the capital sins if it would be helpful.” 

In the booth that felt simultaneously too tall and too narrow, a speck of dust caught in the patterned streams of light wove in and out of light and darkness. Madeleine opened his palm and allowed it to fall onto his hand. He knew his sins. A loaf of bread. The Bagne. His own hands that had risen against others, believing itself legitimate in its hatred. The times that his hands hung by his sides, motionless while other men were ravaged. The lies. The additional crimes he committed during the days he fought his way from Toulon to Digne before he found his way to the grace of the Bishop. The forty sous coin he still did not manage to pay back. His thoughts of Javert. All these must remain between him and God. But the men, women and children all around him who suffered voicelessly despite his efforts, like Fantine, like Cosette, they were the sins of Madeleine, the man trying to live an honest life. 

"Father, I have sinned." 

"I listen to you." 

“I no longer know what God expects from me.” 

“That is only because your fear blinds you. Continue.” 

"Whenever I give coins to a drunken beggar, he will bless me. However, my charity only helped him take a step closer to his grave." He lowered his eyes to his knees. "When I instead offer the same man a bed in the hospital to recover, or to find him work so he could earn a living, he would flee from me and condemn me as a jailer." 

"Never forget that charity is to give without pride. You must not give expecting a blessing, or for them to accept your help, my son." 

"Yes Father, I only try to do what I can so that he would no longer suffer. So that the next day when I walk by, he would no longer be there slumped against the wall." 

"What you gave to him was not charity, it was a new path through life. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe that was not the path that God has provided for him?" 

"…no, I had not." He rubbed his forehead almost furiously. Over the past weeks he had taken the time to speak to some of the people he previously handed coins to in silence. Among them were men who failed to find jobs, evicted women, children born in disgrace. "I do not understand how a merciful God could have chosen for all these men, women, and children paths so full of suffering. I do not know how to do His will." 

"Keep trying, my son. God works in His own ways, do not doubt that He is watching every single one of us. In due time, He will grant you your reward." 

He shook his head. There would be no reward for him. Not for the convict or for the impostor. Let alone the man of little faith. He looked up and saw his shadow projected against the lattice, in plain sight of the curé. Now, it mattered little. 

"You doubt, like many men do. Because that is the path God has chosen for you and also for them. Pray ten Our Fathers as penance. Go in the peace of Christ.” 

Something about those last ritual parting words, spoken so matter-of-factly, struck him like a fist in the stomach. He had overthought this entire ordeal, made it seem much more difficult than it turned out to be -- he had not even finished confessing yet and forgiveness was already granted to him. He simply never lied about what wasn't asked. Would that be enough? That would have to suffice. 

The wave of relief still lingered on him when he reached a bench in the back row and knelt again. He lifted his head when a tempestuous patter of badly silenced steps sped down the aisle, as the children released from catechesis competed for the best places to attend Mass on their assigned benches. Madeleine smiled when Cosette, easily recognizable with her long, tidy braid of golden blonde waved at him. 

Go in peace, Monsieur le Curé had said. And as he laid his weary eyes on the children in the front row who were all barely able to sit still, he saw amongst them a vision of the young boy he used to be. There he sat with his dear sister Jeanne, his mother, and his father, Jean, after whom he was named. Though his family was never the most demonstrative with their affection, he never feared to one day lose it. He remembered how easily forgiveness came back then. For mistakenly striking an elderly woman with a small rock while practicing his marksmanship, he was assigned the penance of three Hail Mary's. To the child yet to experience hunger, desperation, and the crushing weight of the law, the punishment was fair. Not just the one from the curé, but also the one from his father, to carry the elderly woman's water for a month. The punishment was fair and so was the forgiveness he earned. To the graying man who could only live his life hiding behind a false name, the penance assigned by the curé was but a fraction of what he already recited every night in front of the cross. 

If even Madeleine, who strove above all to be kind and merciful to his fellow men, was as in need of forgiveness as everyone else -- what of Jean Valjean? A sinner who differed from the majority only for having acted against the law of men, the one which did not value repentance nor tolerated mercy. Simply a man who had made a few too many mistakes in his life. 

When the mass ended he waited in one of the aisles, with his hand outstretched towards the children. Soon enough Cosette's cold, little hand grabbed his palm ever so slightly, and it disappeared beneath his rough fingers. He knew the two of them to be watched, an unmarried man walking around with the daughter of an unwed mother, and led her away from the crowd at the first opportunity to do so. 

Immediately after the view across the large public square cleared, they noticed the tall, charcoal-gray form of the town's chief inspector, standing next to one of the lamp posts with his hands clasped behind his back. Naturally, where Javert stood was where the crowd avoided, and exactly where Madeleine and Cosette ended up. The policeman touched the brim of his top hat in greeting. 

"It helped me… to know you are outside," the maire said softly, almost like it was another line in his confession. And he watched in wonder as something ephemeral appeared in Javert's eyes, not the confusion written so clearly in the frown but a vulnerability, as if the man was touched. 

"Monsieur le Maire?" Javert responded, his hesitation humanizing his voice, "I made you feel safe--" 

"Yes, you did--" 

"--from pickpockets?" 

Madeleine looked up into Javert's eyes and smiled sadly. He did not know why Javert always personally patrolled outside the church at this small mass attended mostly by workers instead of the great mass attended by the businessmen and bourgeois. Madeleine only knew that Javert was always there without fail. If Javert was here because this was the mass he attended, the man had no idea how much he was helping. 

Though this entire exchange Cosette remained silently by Madeleine's side, the shyness and fear resulting from her unfortunate time with the Thénardiers still very much a part of her personality. Only now, in the break in their conversation did she timidly tug on Madeleine's trousers to get him to look down at her. 

"Is Monsieur l'Inspecteur coming to our dinner tonight?" she asked, cradling her cloth doll and glancing back and forth between the faces of the two men. 

"Yes he is," Madeleine answered a little awkwardly, since Javert was standing right there. He cleared his throat. "Both Monsieur Javert and his… date." 

Seemingly pleased by this response, Cosette asked, addressing Javert this time, "Will you be late?" 

"I am never late." 

"Never?' 

The policeman nodded. "Never. In the case of emergency, a note from me will arrive on time." 

"Oh…." 

"Cosette, we should not continue to bother the Chief Inspector while he is on duty," Madeleine interjected. Watching Javert interact with Cosette was an endless source of amusement, and it was the thing which he looked forward to the most for the dinner. He bid farewell and gently guided the girl away. 

Stopping under a tree, he stooped down to her. "It is still very early, and your mother is busy sewing until the dinner. Is there anything you wish to do in the meantime?" 

"I want to visit Gavroche." Invariably, as every Sunday since they arrived from Montfermeil. Madeleine smiled. 

Along the short walk not even the good women chattering outside storefronts and dropping their disapproving glances alternately on him and on Cosette, managed to erase the smile from his lips. However he did notice that the girl gradually shrank from his side, surely finding it difficult to follow his uneven pace, which led him to swerve to one side when he was distracted - to the right, because the strides of his left leg, with the undamaged ankle, were longer - he slowed his walk and tried to pay attention. But soon after, when the poor girl tripped and nearly fell over, he stopped dead and felt the tip of her boots. They were too big for her feet. 

He raised a hand to call a boy selling newspapers and searched for a place where they could both sit. Nearby, he could only find the steps of a porch in shadows. He busied himself at filling her boots with scraps of paper. It would have been easier to buy new boots, but Fantine would have take offense at the intrusion. A provisional arrangement, however... 

While this happened a particularly large group of men spoke a few steps beyond them. Their camaraderie and good mood was evident. 

"The old man has his head in the clouds lately... But you're right, I would not reject his coins. Perhaps with a few extra francs my fiancée would end her trousseau and we could get married...." 

"Impatient?" another man said, "In three years you will be so sick of it, and you will wish he had not given you the money..." They laughed, then another voice joined the conversation. 

"I would use it to rent a plot of land. One quite small, near the river bend. My oldest son would help me to grow potatoes in it. Work comes and goes, but if a man learns to farm the land, he can earn his bread." 

"Bah! Stop dreaming! Madeleine is too busy buying the drunkards wine and opening schools for the whores’ children to care about his workers. Although we work for him twelve hours a day, six days a week! It is we who fill his pockets!" 

"Do not be ungrateful, François... We all know that when you're not working, you're getting drunk in the Goualeuse's _estaminet_ (bar), or loosening the strings of her corset." 

Aware that it was him being spoken about long before his name entered the conversation, Madeleine hurried to securely tie Cosette's boots. Then, taking advantage of the widespread racket, both of them departed as quietly as they could toward Rue Pierre Ledent. He wholeheartedly wished that the little one could not understand what was being said about him. He would not know how to bear any reproach drawn on her tiny face. 

Along the way they stopped at Michaud’s bakery. He had taken up the habit of bringing fresh brioche (sweet pastry) and bread every time he visited the orphanage. The brioche was for Cosette, who appreciated sweets, while the baguette he shared with Gavroche. With the baby boy, things were easy. Gavroche never failed to recognize him and welcome him with outstretched arms, in a way which reminded him of the instinctive trust and purity that filled his childhood. 

This morning, Gavroche was happy to be placed on the ground and allowed to crawl at will across the soft blades of grass. He babbled excitedly while Cosette sang, and often threw himself on her tiny torso and drool all over her face. Every time Cosette would laugh and hold him as she would her doll. While they played Madeleine was a benign but unintrusive presence, intervening only to wipe off Cosette's face or to stop Gavroche from attempting to taste something intriguing he found in the grass. 

The morning passed quickly, with much joy. However, to the graying man still plagued by his thoughts from the mass just hours ago, it was only too clear what these two unfortunate children were missing from their lives. They both needed a father, yet he was no more than a poor substitute for what his own father had been to him. He did not know how to do more. 

When the children tired and it came time for a snack, Madeleine took out the bread and proceeded to tear small pieces out of it. Soon enough Gavroche crawled over and clutched at his pants, audaciously demanding his piece. Having received it, the boy sat on his lap to eat it eagerly with glee shining in his eyes. In that twinkle was contained the greatest treasure that a man could aspire to. Stunned by what he was seeing, he did not react when Gavroche’s small, sticky hand explored his nearly-white beard. Not until the baby boy gave a handful of it a sudden jerk, which made him hiss. Cosette burst out laughing and proceeded to explain through a mouth half full of brioche how Gavroche had pulled Javert’s whiskers throughout their journey from Montfermeil to make their fiacre stop. 

Madeleine smiled dreamily. He had little trouble visualizing the scene being described. Not only this, now he had no trouble imagining the son which Javert had said he wanted, and for whom Javert was seeking a wife. A child whose idea of play would be to patrol the street or guard the door, of course to emulate his father. An unusual boy, perhaps, or maybe not at all like his father in temperament. But unquestionably, undoubtedly, very dear to him, Madeleine. And Javert would have a loving family, a wife who would give him those hugs he asks for, and who won his affection without any lies, without any force. What right had he, as a man who failed to provide for his own family and possibly sped them to their deaths when he stole, to judge Javert for wanting a family? To feel anything other than happiness for Javert would be jealousy. And for a man who was barely in control of his own life to be jealous against a woman who was free to act on her love, free to commit her future-- 

But Gavroche pulled him from his thoughts with another tug, and not getting more reaction from him than a patient but wistful sigh, the boy glanced around with watery eyes and began to cry. Startled, Madeleine tried to quell the tears with an offer of another piece of bread, but that was rejected. Coming up with no other option he withdrew from his pocket the straw doll he had just finished, and despite not being sure whether it was an appropriate toy for a baby, he handed it over. Torn between laughter and tears, the boy opened his eyes wide. He dug his stubby fingers into the doll's torso and pulled the straw with determination. Gavroche stood up again when he succeeded in tearing off the first strand, and his inarticulate shout, Madeleine could be sure, was definitely one of triumph. 

**\---**

Madeleine returned to his factory with the distracted steps of the man who was in no hurry. His expression was impassive, even solemn, but the images which came to his mind in a mess troubled him deeply. They brought back feelings that had been forgotten somewhere between Faverolles and Toulon. 

His nephew Pierre, the baby who in his memory never grew up, now had Gavroche’s features. To return the child to his caretakers every Sunday lunchtime felt increasingly wrong, painful even. The humble table set by Fantine, awaiting their return, was the very same he provided for so many years ago. The expectant gaze she had for her little girl brought echoes of Jeanne’s voice. "Better times will come," she said whenever her clumsy brother returned with empty hands. Then he sat, bent over his bowl of watery broth to avoid talking, hiding his shame behind his mop of tangled hair. Letting time pass him by. 

Now, he was still silent, but not by choice. He left his lunch forgotten and went downstairs to the workshops to leave a gold Napoleon on every work bench. He imagined that they would be enough to pay for a few modest dreams, ones like those he used to have in a wasted life. 

Only then did Madeleine return to his office and dropped himself onto his worn red armchair, his gaze laying on the nearby blue one. He thought he saw long, gloved fingers fidgeting on its armrest and closed his eyes when the huge hand reached toward him. 

His next sensation was an extremely startling one: an unknown weight being placed on his chest. When his eyes popped open he saw a colorful tiny dress, green and purple, and his heart pounded as his nails dug into the armrests until they creaked. 

"Look, look at Catherine! Maman sewed her a dress like mine!" 

It was Cosette. He took a deep breath to bring his nerves back under control and gave her a hesitant smile. Tonight's dinner was meant to be a celebration and being surprised by the arrival of his guests was not a good way to begin. He invited the waiting Fantine to enter and settled her into one of the extra chairs he moved into the room just for this occasion. Everything was a little bit cramped, but it was the only way he could make enough space in his office for a dining table. His room was even smaller. 

Cosette surely noticed the changes but she was not bothered by it. "Monsieur l'Inspecteur is still not here? But he will come, will he?" she asked. 

"Yes, he will come." Madeleine checked his watch. "He... they will be here within two minutes," he responded, then hurried to check that no glasses or utensils were missing from the table. 

A minute and a half later, he watched Javert help the widow Beaumont out of her coat and hang it, before leading her to the table where Fantine sat alone. The seamstress had shed the shawl which she wore, revealing a head of hair still too short to be styled, and a face pale from the lack of sun. Madeleine did the formal introductions and was pleased, even grateful, to discover the widow as a woman with pleasant disposition, both able and willing to engage Fantine in conversation. Soon, Madeleine found himself debating with her and Fantine about the best way to dry flowers for their preservation.  


Either unable to follow the discussion or bored by it, Cosette left the table and went to Javert, who was busy poking the embers in the dying fire. When her presence was acknowledged wordlessly, she raised her doll above her head with both arms, towards him. 

"Do you like Catherine's dress?" 

The Chief Inspector got off his heels and looked at the doll. "If you are asking whether I want to wear one like it, _non_." 

The young girl looked at the clothes the man wore, an entirely blue uniform, and then the green and purple dress on her doll. She decided she agreed. "Will you go visit Gavroche? He misses pulling on your whiskers." 

"Gavroche? He is too young to remember me." 

"But he does!" Cosette's watery, bright eyes conveyed her vivid emotions. "I tried to teach him to say Monsieur l'Inspecteur." 

"And?" Javert prompted, skeptically. 

"When he says it, it sounds like…" -her scrunched-up face was full of childlike earnestness- "Maahhhh!!!" 

During Fantine's explanation of floral designs for embroidery, Madeleine watched them fondly, looking over his shoulder. It seemed to him that Javert was smiling. 

"Madame, it may look from here like Cosette knows the trick to get him to chat..." he commented to the widow after they reached the end of the topic, "but I am sure it is actually the fireplace that is keeping him there." He smiled and glanced at Fantine to make sure she took it the way he meant it: as a joke. "Oddly he does not like stoves, actually I've never heard him complain about anything else." He studied her reaction, aware that his own guilty conscience had thus far prevented him from any meaningful contact with the woman who will likely soon become Javert's wife. It was his hope that gradually, over group events like this dinner, he would become comfortable with her. For now, however, he only tried his best to be attentive, to make her feel that her broad smile meant something to him. 

Madame Beaumont turned her head toward Javert for a moment, out of courtesy, and sipped her wine. Then she changed the topic, to Cosette's schooling, without offering a response. Madeleine thought with some measure of dismay that the importance of the only weakness Javert allowed himself to show, escaped her. 

After Javert and Cosette joined them at the table, and everyone took their seats, Madeleine smiled and cleared his throat. He did not need to, as all eyes were already on him. 

"Here is the reason for this dinner," he announced, unfolding an opened letter he retrieved from his pocket. "Ah… I received this last Friday, and it is from the Maire and Council of Montfermeil. They convey their gratitude for your performance in their town, Chief Inspector.” He extended the letter to Javert, and paused for a moment as it was read. No matter how much he was forced to practice as maire, he never became comfortable with public speaking. A shame, because this was the occasion for a great speech. "You should be proud of him, Madame," he said instead, turning to the widow. The widow Beaumont beamed. Cosette and Fantine clapped and cheered. 

Madeleine declined when Javert tried to return the letter, telling him to keep it. And the Maire noted with satisfaction that the policeman lowered his eyes, as if just a little bit embarrassed. 

"Now that business is finished, we should eat," Madeleine said. Then he lead the prayer. 

The _gratin dauphinois_ (type of potato casserole), one of his portress Madame Blondel's best dishes, was served to universal acclaim. In the minutes that followed, Madeleine contributed polite comments as the women exchanged secrets to cook the perfect gratin, even at one point asking Madame Blondel in to answer their questions. A complex issue, apparently. 

"Monsieur le maire is unusually talkative tonight," Javert noted as he adjusted the napkin on his lap. Next to him, the widow Beaumont covered her mouth with her hand, in shock. 

"Yes! I was wondering how you managed to spend entire afternoons with someone so sociable..." she set down her fork and laughed, while Javert continued eating. 

Fantine sorted a stray hair from Cosette's face behind the girl's ear, so it would not catch any of the cream. "Monsieur l'inspecteur," she said, noticing how her daughter was frowning at the man. "You have not spoken yet, perhaps something interesting happened during your day?" 

The Chief Inspector set down his knife and fork. "Today along Rue Pierre Ledent thirteen people complained that money is not raining from the sky. It is absolutely inexplicable, yet there are more and more such people in this town." 

"Oh--" the widow laughed nervously. She reached over and laid a hand on Javert's arm. "Monsieur is referring to the people who wish for Monsieur le Maire's charity…" she said in explanation, then chastised her date, "You do not have to listen to it if it makes you unhappy.” 

“I must, because those complaints often aggravate into disrespect of the Maire -- a real offense." 

Madeleine felt his stomach shrink. It had not occurred to him that his habit of indiscriminate giving would contribute to such grief for Javert. He could only hope that the money he gave to his workers will quell their complaints -- though there will always be someone else who wants more. 

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur, do not allow their words to trouble you so much," -he said, his voice dropping off for lack of conviction- "they did not bother me." 

The Chief Inspector frowned in disagreement, and everyone present could tell that he refrained from speaking only so he would not to disagree with the Maire. With much finesse the widow quickly sought to redirect the conversation to a happier topic. 

"You mentioned you may get a promotion after we get married, and that it would be to a city. Paris perhaps?" she asked brightly. Yet the response she received was a solemn one. 

" _Oui_. A promotion would make me a Commissaire, a post only available in cities. Paris is one possibility -- Parisians are very sensible." 

"The two of you speak of your wedding as if it is already planned…" observed Fantine, as a benevolent smile took over her bony face. "It must be soon?" The widow Beaumont smiled politely and turned to the policeman in deference. 

"I was advised not to propose until dating for six months," Javert said after a nod. "There are three weeks left." 

At his words Madeleine looked up from his plate in horror. It was not because of what was said - he knew better than anyone else how long the two of them had been dating - but how it was said. With the coldness of a business decision-- "When can I expect the delivery?" "It takes six months to manufacture, which is due in three weeks." "Then, three weeks it is." -- and without even the warmth he regularly found in Javert's words when they spoke about something as trivial as an advertisement in the paper. Madeleine looked at Javert, and then he looked at the widow. The smile on her face was more relieved than genuinely joyful. There was little of the bliss he would expect of a soon-to-be bride, even for a woman who had already lost one husband. Suddenly the meal tasted of sand in his mouth. 

Vaguely he was aware of Fantine's good natured tease: "Oh--! He is always so principled, isn't he?" And the sound of laughter around the table, which prompted him to smile. 

Then there was Cosette's voice, so easily recognizable even though his eyes were resolutely fixed on the plate in front of him. "Will there be cake? Am I allowed to go?" 

" _Oui_ , you can come." 

Madeleine tried to hide his dismay by stirring the _gratin dauphinois_ until it became a paste. He tried not to hear the well-intentioned chat of the widow, nor Javert’s concise but perfectly polite responses. Perhaps his mood was infectious, because he could no longer manage to help keep conversations going and the entire table became more quiet through the main course. After a quick dessert where mostly only the widow spoke -- answering all of Fantine's questions about who she planned to invite to wedding - Madeleine apologized profusely to everyone and declared the dinner over. 

It seemed the only thing he managed to learn about the widow was that she did not love Javert. But knowing this, nothing else mattered. 

**\---**

"Walk with me, Javert." 

"Monsieur le Maire," the Chief Inspector replied. 

The next night they walked, with Madeleine leading the way, northwards up the gentle, natural slope of the land on top of which the town was built, and slowly up the moss-covered steps of its citadelle. It was a big change in scenery from where they always met before, either in the factory office or the mairie, but Madeleine - perhaps it was Jean Valjean - hoped that up here, it would be possible for him to surrender himself to the sky and the wind, to rest his feet next to the grass able to conquer the hewn stone, and be anew a man unbroken by fear. 

"Yesterday before the dinner, I gave one gold Napoleon to each of my workers, because of their complaints," he said, breaking abruptly their companionable silence. “By the time I knew you would be so angered, it was already done. I am sorry.” He had ordered the gendarmes to allow them privacy, and the only witnesses left which lived and breathed were the river and the forest beyond it. 

“The entire town knew the coins were from you before the morning was over. You do not need to apologize to me for your odd hobbies, Monsieur le Maire.” Javert watched him intensely, two deep vertical lines furrowing his brow, in an expression of concern which was hurtfully evident. "This is why you asked to meet?" 

No. He asked because he needed to know what happened to the young guard who once scribbled between the lines of a book about how he hoped for a convict to redeem himself. An affectionate soul who in his own way waited to love and to be loved. He shook his head. 

Out across the fields of the Pas de Calais the whistling wind stripped withering leaves from half-barren branches. Soon he would have spent three years with Javert. 

“Do you love her?" he asked, torn between being considerate in his wording and being clear with his question. "Are you proposing to Madame Beaumont because you love her?” 

"I will propose to her because she wants a child and she does not judge me for my birth. She stayed through the meal after I told her I am the son of a convict and a prostitute." Javert's response, effortlessly proud in the way it refused to wallow in self-pity, was not what he expected. For a moment he stood in awe of how this man always made honesty seem so simple. 

"She stayed for you because she understands that you are not the convict, and you are not the prostitute.As I do. As I am sure, many others do also." Something in the tilt of the policeman's head told Madeleine that on this last point, they did not agree. But the Maire, his voice strained by turbulent emotion completely at odds with his usual placidity, continued. "But is this all you care to have for your life, to go home to a wife who simply finds you unobjectionable? How can this make you happy, even if I have no doubt you will both love your child?" He knew what it felt like to be unobjectionable. For too many years it had been his life, but he was the one who stole and broke parole, Javert did not. 

The policeman turned to face him, and their eyes locked. “Monsieur le Maire, I see you are distressed yet I do not understand why. My life is simple. I do my duty as policeman, go home and do the duty of husband and father. If I do well at work they will give me a promotion. If I do well at home…” Javert clasped his hands behind his back glanced up with a small grimace into the orange-coloured sky, as if this question was uncomfortable to contemplate and he was doing it for the first time. “I suppose she will want to have more children, because this is the way it should be. Maybe she will want to hug, like sometimes you agree to hug. It is a better life than many have.” 

Madeleine pursed his lips and reached for one of Javert's gloved hands, and held it gently by the wooly fingers. It was not a hug, it was not even the same as holding his hand, but it was still contact."But the end of the day, after you are done with all those things you consider to be your duties, after you go start your stove and you get in your bed… when you close your eyes, is that the life you want to live?" In Javert's eyes he saw only a patient incomprehension until they closed and stayed that way for a few long seconds, as the man tried to do what was asked. 

“You mean I should want a life completely different from the one I am actually living, one that is unearned, like the people who want coins to fall from the sky?” It was a peculiar way to word it, one which made Madeleine smile. The Maire nodded encouragingly. 

“I did once. When a convict lied to me. **”**

Through stinging eyes Madeleine searched for the young guard in the man in front of him. That young man had fewer lines around his eyes and a smooth face; on his temples, no silver threads glistened. To this man Jean Valjean had wanted to give everything he once coveted for himself. But none of it came to pass, and now he gently stroked the fingers of a man who had been broken by disappointment. 

"This sort of unreasonable expectation, do men not grow out of it?" Javert asked. 

"Yes, I suppose many do." 

"But you did not? Is this why you encourage all those people with your coins, because you want a different life?" 

"Yes." 

"Last night, after everyone left your office and you moved the table back, pushed the armchairs back where they used to be, did you close your eyes and...? Wish for a different life?" 

"Yes, Javert. Last night I closed my eyes and dreamt of the same life that I dreamt of the day before, and the day before that… And I will dream of the same things tonight, because this morning when I woke up I changed nothing." 

What life could remain for a man who was constantly on the run from his past? A dry expanse of time, where simply to go there from here, or to do this instead of that, was an obstacle. A purgatory in which to express an opinion, to show his true face or to listen to his own conscience was to risk what little he had left. A hell where it was forbidden for him to look at the man he loved in the eye and say: I'm sorry. In the end, I hurt you more than I managed anything else. 

"This life you dream of, it is better than being a Maire?" 

"Yes." 

"How is that possible?" 

Madeleine glanced up to the uncertain glow of the first stars and smiled. "It is getting late. Tonight, your duties are over. Go home and allow yourself to dream." 

“And you?“ Javert's strong, yet surprisingly gentle hand reached openly for his shoulder. Madeleine raised his own palm to take hold of it. 

“No, tonight I will pray for courage. Superhuman courage.” 


	55. One Door Closes...

In the vast and dense forest across the Canche, owls hooted and scavenging rodents scattered to the sound of crushed leaves. 

Through the soft overnight fog settled amongst the trees, a solitary man felt his way forward with his bare hands, guided by the sparse moonlight which penetrated the forest canopy. Gnarled bark scraped his palms and sharp thorns poked holes into his tidy suit and jacket, respectable attire fit for the maire of a prospering town. All too often cobwebs stuck to his face, but even that did not deter him from continuing northeast, always northeast, traveling straight as an arrow. Even when he raised an arm to brush off his face, he did not slow down. Not until he spied light beyond the towering trunks. 

This was the exact location Madeleine's gaze instinctively searched for from atop the citadelle, when he held Javert's hand. There, this small clearing only appeared as a tiny break in the field of trees, most of the way to the setting sun. 

In this place a single tree, its charred trunk split into two halves by lightning, rose out of soil where neither Cow-Wheat flowered nor blackberries grew, only weeds. Surrounding it were a mass of stumps left behind by its brethren, who had all presumably been logged for their wood. It was in this place where no other man would see any value or any reason to stop that years ago, the newly conceived Père Madeleine first buried a chest containing his meager laborer’s savings. 

Madeleine sank to his knees and, with almost feverish dedication, shoveled away a patch of packed-down earth using the pick-ax he had hidden nearby until he was able to open the buried chest. With soil-encrusted fingers he reached into the container filled nearly to the brim with banknotes, carelessly staining the stacks he touched with brown smudges. Before him was more money than many would ever earn in their entire lives, and also the last and only hope for a man scorned and unwanted by society to hold what was left of his fate in his own hands. 

In his left hand, a thick stack of 1000f notes, enough for another set of faked papers and a ticket out of the country; England was closest but his business associate Señor Pérez often spoke fondly of Spain and its people. Enough to find a safe place to settle and start another business in a foreign land… In his right hand, smaller denominations of 500f and 100f notes pinned together, intended to be more convenient and less suspicious should he need to run again. But even this - he pulled out the pin and counted the notes - was enough to buy a small plot of land in the countryside, where a man of already fifty-three years could live to the end of his life in relative comfort. He had seen enough of the world as both maire and convict to know the truth of the adage " _L'argent ouvre toutes les portes_ (money opens all doors)", to know there were few things a man could not buy with this much money. If Javert would be willing, they could buy new names, buy what life it was that Javert wanted. 

But above all, he knew that to even suggest to Javert the possibility to run, not with the man known as Père Madeleine but the long-lost, still wanted criminal Jean Valjean, was to ask an innocent man to live the life of a fugitive. A life of fear and glancing over one's shoulder. A sentence. 

As if struck by some harrowing thought he raised his shaking hands to his temples, and sheets of banknotes fluttered gently to the ground, where they joined the first decaying leaves of autumn. There he remained, as if oblivious to the passage of time, until abruptly he began to empty the contents of the chest into his coat pockets. Quickly afterwards, the hole was gone and the dirt was once again packed down. Smooth, nondescript, and possibly never to be visited again. 

When the solitary man limped away, moonlight landed gently on his slumped shoulders and illuminated the tendrils of fog which clung to his form, turning him an awe-inspiring, immaculate white. 

He left behind him in the once again buried chest a mere five 100f notes, those which happened to land there. Enough for six months of rent with nothing to spare for a proper burial. But that would only be a laughable luxury for a man who would not even know what name would be inscribed on his gravestone. 

**\---**

A heavy sacred silence, as that which belonged in a cathedral, still lingered in the waking town when Madeleine strode along the streets. The parted entryways aired out their scents of mildew and coffee, but the battered building which housed Fantine and Cosette conveyed only cold and neglect. 

"May I enter, Madame." 

Something compelling in his voice made the overworked woman look him over for a second before allowing him to step inside her room. It was disturbing, when drowsiness still made the morning light seem unreal, to notice for the first time the broadness of this man's shoulders, and the power built into his frame. To sense that he could be anything other than friendly. 

Over at the small dining table, Cosette looked up from the cup of steaming milk in front of her and saw Madeleine. Her tiny face immediately lit up. 

“Yes, Monsieur le Maire.” Fantine tightened her shawl around her slender shoulders and finally managed to ask if something bad had happened. But both her concern and her offer of coffee were waved off. Nevertheless, Madeleine obliged and took a seat. The old crate with his name inscribed on its side creaked dangerously under his weight, but he ignored it. Fantine tried hard to overlook the fatigue that his grimly expression did not succeeded to completely conceal. But there was no agitation in the man's face, and that alone reassured her. She handled a piece of freshly toasted bread to her daughter. 

Cosette dipped it in her cup carefully and nibbled at one end. "Your hair is funny," she said giggling. It was a mindless comment, yet it seemed to trigger some sort of self-awareness in the man who had not even stopped home to change after spending the entire night in the forest. He set down the small bag he carried on the table in order to run his hand through hair that was wet with dew and sweat. Fantine eyed it briefly as she packed a piece of chalk and a scratched blackboard in Cosette’s school sack. 

"Do you bring something urgent to sew, Monsieur?" But Madeleine shook his head pensively and considered her in silence. 

“Monsieur Madeleine, if you have come to give me that bag, I will only accept it if it is some cloth you need me to sew.” 

“It is not for you, it is for her. Cosette." He said. 

“For Cosette?” 

“Fantine, it is not that something happened but something will soon happen. Something which will make it difficult if not impossible for me to continue providing you with work in this town.” The Maire raised a steady hand to prevent Fantine from interrupting. “You must leave town with Cosette as soon as you are able, and with this money provide for Cosette.…” 

“No, Monsieur! No this is not right!” 

On the crate opposite to his, Cosette ceased the carefree swinging her legs and dropped the piece of bread. In her wide open eyes were drawn the horrified gaze of children who guess that something is terribly wrong, but fail to understand why. 

“You could use as little of it for yourself as you wish, I know this is almost an insult to you but I do not mean it as one … I only ask that you not deprive Cosette of her mother, by working yourself to death. Go elsewhere, where no one knows either of you and start a new life. Make her happy, educate her and eventually, find her a husband. What I want could not be much different than what you want, so do not fight me.” 

“You cannot ask this with no explanations…” 

“I cannot explain. But in time, maybe long after you have established your new life, I am sure some travelers will happily tell you what happened to the Maire Madeleine. Ask no more, go to the station and purchase two tickets.” 

His words spoken, Madeleine rose from his seat and reached for the door. He did not turn around to the sound of Fantine's attempts to gently comfort her daughter, nor to the cries of the frightened girl when it reached the hallway. Only a neighbor who, happened to be scrubbing the floor in front of her door saw how the Maire's expression of resolve crumbled. Only she saw how, in a way that was unbefitting a man of such authority, Madeleine fled. 

****  


**\---**

Despite it being a common Tuesday, there was quite a stir among the workers of Manufactures Madeleine. No shipments were scheduled for the day, nor had they received any uncommon order. However, being used to work under the same man for years, they sensed their foreman's agitation at the hasty, almost frantic way he barked his commands. 

When the humpbacked notary of Montreuil arrived and helped himself into the absent owner’s office, grumbling and taking with him both the foreman and the cashier; and especially, as Madeleine arrived mid-morning gloomy faced, his fine clothes stained with dry mud, rumors spread widely. 

There were those who spoke of a mistress with a shady past who keep meeting with Madeleine for stealthy, wild encounters under the moonlight. There were those who said sarcastically that after a tremendous binge, the saint ended up on all fours on the banks of the Canche, finally revealing his true face. 

Fate alone ensured that none of these workers had run into the administrator of the local orphanage before coming to work this day, for if even one did, they would have reported that Madeleine had taken the man from his bed long before sun rose, to negotiate with him a generous donation on the behalf of an anonymous benefactor. That this gift alone would ensure the survival of the institution over the next two years, and included a clause that made the child Gavroche beneficiary of an amount to cover not only his education but also the boy’s support while pursuing his apprenticeship in the trade of the boy's choice. Surely in light of this juicy information the rumors would have been duly reimagined to include the births of various illegitimate children during those wild nights in the Canche. Of course, even those who conceived of these grotesque situations could not manage to believe them. But laughter helped both to bear expectation and to shape it. 

Madeleine strolled right past the onlooking workers and entered his office with abrupt steps, his lips flattened into a stern line. There was no trace in him of the Maire's bland manners, nor of his of cold, elusive courtesy. There were no greetings and hollow words saved for the worried men who were gathered there. 

He closed the door. 

**\---**

Time passed as a maddeningly slow eternity before Madeleine could return to his room. 

For years his abode had been little more than the cell of a monk. A barren, secret place where he admitted his guilt and assumed his penance on aching knees. Far too late, this room became a sanctuary able to shelter hope, desire and warmth. Those of a tormented man in perpetual struggle against the shadows of his past. Madeleine did not let his eyes linger on the bed that now seemed to him cozy and safe. The time for melancholy and fear was over. 

He rubbed off the dirt caking his knees and thighs; he scrubbed away the sweat that coated his body, now dried and sticky, until his skin was raw. And there was penance in the way his nerves quivered throwing jabs of pain. He blackened his best shoes then changed into his whitest shirt and his darkest suit. As if the fineness of his clothes could take away the memory of the man he no longer was. 

His hand trembled as he lifted his razor to bring it near the stubble growing under the line of his neatly trimmed beard. From the small mirror hanging over the washlands, a white haired, haggard old man stared back at him blankly. 

Madeleine watched closely, and thought he still could see in his own eyes the same wild flames that illuminated them, when his mirror was a precious patch of still water near the docks of Toulon. At last, it seemed to him that God's mercy took away hatred and rage, but left in his eyes and in his breast Jean le Cric´s fierce determination. He did not wait to be in front of his little copper cross to fall on his knees and pray. To give thanks and to plead for mercy. He soon discovered that no words could convey his hopes, nor his aspirations. He clenched his balled fists, raised them in front of his eyes, maybe sensing the quiet strength that still ran through his veins. 

With renewed faith, he simply voiced aloud his trust in God's will and readied himself to open the path he would keep striding for the remainder of his days. 

**\---**

The sun was half-hidden behind the jagged silhouette of the ramparts when Madeleine sat alone at a table, hiding in his own way inside a busy _estaminet_ full of acrid smoke. His hands shook as he raised a cup of coffee to his lips, a forgotten spoon rattling inside it. A rod-shaped bundle carefully wrapped in white cloth rested across the far end of the table, but his eyes were not on it, instead they watched with nervous anticipation the tall window in the other direction, through which he had plain view of the front door to Javert's building of residence. 

A few minutes after the chief inspector disappeared through the doorway, dipping his head to avoid brushing the top of his hat against the lintel, Madeleine downed his entire drink and set a ten sous piece on the table. Then with a quickness intended to disallow any opportunity for doubt, he made his way across the street and into that same building, to knock on Javert's door. 

It opened immediately. 

“Monsieur le Maire?" The chief inspector exclaimed with surprise, though the tone which indicated it as a pleasant one quickly disappeared as he asked, "What happened to your hair?” 

In the gap between the policeman's arm and the door frame, Madeleine saw that the old stove which stood too close to the small bed. Its handled door was ajar, above a small draw-string bag of coal also left wide open. And then, when Javert made a gesture with his hand, it struck Madeleine that the hand was gloveless. In that moment he knew exactly what he had interrupted, and with a sense of horror and despair which turn cold the blood of any man, he became aware of truly how transparent Javert had become to him, and how he could already predict the reaction he will receive. 

“That is unimportant… Please invite me into your room, _Monsieur l'Inspecteur_.” Madeleine stepped in, holding tightly the bundle tucked under his arm, as soon as Javert nodded his consent. 

Javert closed the door and swiftly turned to face him. “Is this a personal visit, or had something urgent happened and you tried to find me at the police station?” 

This innocent question seemed to knock the Maire out of his stride. He met Javert's eyes, pained with empathy, and took a breath through parted lips. “Whether this is work or personal, that will soon be your choice," he managed plaintively. 

“Monsieur--” 

“No, Javert, I ask only that you listen to the end of what I have to say. In this town people know me as Père Madeleine, but before that...” his square hand closed around the bundle with such ferocity that his knuckles were bleached white. He closed his eyes and sighed, but the words which followed were brutally clear. “My name was Jean Valjean.” 

An unnatural sound, almost inhuman, a breath violently caught on its way out was all the policeman managed. And as if a chain stronger than metal had finally been severed, and the purest part of a man set free, Jean Valjean continued to speak. 

“I have lied to you but now I tell you only the truth. After you left Toulon the remainder of my sentence became a living hell to me. Every single minute of it, first to believe that the young guard so dear to me had suffered retribution because of me, and then to know that you were simply gone and have no reason ever to return again. Four failed escape attempts later I left Toulon, fifteen years after you, and I tried to be the man society expected me to be. But despite my strength and my willingness to work and to learn, no livelihood was open to me. No one who saw my papers would hire me. No one would hire me without seeing my papers. The only way for me to eat was more crime.” Shame colored his face and shook his breath, yet he continued, indomitable. “On my way North I tried to steal the silver from the home of the Bishop of Digne, and even when he gifted me that silver, I still stole a forty sous piece from a chimneysweep named Petit Gervais. But that was the last time I broke the law, it was seven years ago. From then on I had been the Père Madeleine you have known. A man who tried to call you friend.” 

Here he stopped, and desperate for some acknowledgement of the truth of his words, followed the empty gaze of his companion to a wall behind his shoulder. The unadulterated horror in Javert's eyes was unfocused, turned inward -- the reaction of a man who could not bear the situation around him, yet could bear to be in his own skin even less, for, unfathomably, the situation was of his own making. 

Valjean's hands twitched as he stifled the urge to shake the policeman to sensibility by the shoulders. “Are you listening to me? What I need to say next is too important... do you need more proof?” he demanded, his voice hoarse and beginning to fray. 

He set down the bundle onto the nearby dining table and a dull clang, one unmistakably of something solid and heavy, startled Javert into alertness. But those hands did not then unwrap that object, no; it's fingers flew first to the cravat around his neck and plucked it loose, then the buttons securing his jacket and waist coat, before he pulled his opened collar down his shoulder. What he had to show was not a weapon, but flesh. This, at last, drew a reaction out of Javert -- as the grotesque scars were just about to become visible the chief of police writhed like a wounded tiger and reached to pull the collar down to the elbow. And with wrath clouding his eyes, he grabbed Valjean by the arm and roughly rotated the man until he was able to see what he knew he needed to see. 

"You belong in the jail," he spat out, his voice rising dangerously, barely controlled, "… and I am implicated also!" 

"No Javert, I am not done speaking!" Valjean shouted, effortlessly turning back to face the man he was addressing, as if no hand was gripping his arm. "And then you came, still mostly the same man, still unmarried, and I find out far too late that you waited for me outside of Toulon." 

He held onto Javert's forearm with unwitting force, as his gaze bore into the eyes in front of him. "To ask this question is a sin, it is a crime: Do you still want a future with me? I tell you now as a man who took too long to find his honesty but nonetheless found it, for you: You are still very dear to me and the convict did not lie to you. Does this make a difference in the future you wish for yourself?" 

Javert's face was full of dangerous intent, that of a man in whose hands the law could become an instrument of oppression, cold, bereft of humanity. " _Non_! _Non_ \--" he screamed, incoherent, crazed, a man who could not recognize his own voice because it had never been raised with such venom, "No matter what you say! You belong in the jail, as the law demands!" 

“Monsieur? _Est-ce qu'il y a eu un problème?_ (Has there been a problem?)" 

The illusion of privacy was broken and Valjean's eyes flew immediately to the wall from which the sound came, and as the words turned into a series of knocks, he felt the pull of Javert's arm and released his hand. 

"Stand there, and do not reach for anything!" Javert blurted out, breathing through his teeth in bursts between uneven words. Something in his resonant voice waivered, and belied the fact that something in this man could be broken and had been broken. The disgust on his face made clear that he knew well how outmatched he would be, should Valjean choose to walk out the door. Nonetheless he collected himself and projected his voice across the thin plastered wall. 

"Monsieur Favager, there had been..." -he eyed Valjean, torn clothing and all, and stomped his foot in exasperation, muttering something under his breath about lawless panic and his partner Vasseur- "it is an emergency, a danger to the well-being of this town, and I need you to go find Inspector Vasseur at the station immediately!" 

After a sharp click of the tongue, the husky voice responded, "I will leave now, _Monsieur l'Inspecteur_." Before heavy footsteps departed audibly down the hallway, along with a muffled complaint about a dinner that was getting cold. 

Jean Valjean knew his time was ticking away. "Javert! Speak to me! I have turned myself in, and I have no other way to demonstrate my honesty. Did you hear a single word of what I just said?" 

" _Oui_! You just told me you are a fraud-- and everyone in this town are victims of your fraud!" 

Valjean set his jaw. "There was no fraud! I sold only what I and my workers made. The town had been growing with me as maire, where is the fraud, Javert?' 

"Would the King have appointed a parole-breaker to be maire?" The policeman snarled in a condescending tone, what was clearly meant as a rhetorical question. "How many people would do business with you? How many would willingly work for you? None!" 

"None of them, yes, because the letter of the law says I should have nothing more to look forward to than to end my life in the _bagne_! You were not here when the name Madeleine meant nothing. I never lied that I was _bourgeois_ , or royalty, or anyone important. Only a man with nothing left but his hands to work. A pruner to whom nobody would entrust the care of their trees because the splinters digging into his skin came from Toulon. A worker only useful as a loader, but who wished to start anew. Am I not a man, Javert? Where is the fraud?!" 

The policeman stepped forward menacingly, and opened his mouth to refute this morass of twisted logic which to him defied the fundamentals of right versus wrong to the extent that his words would not come, but this was when the footsteps came. Both men stopped, for different reasons; what to Javert announced help and even salvation, was at this moment to Jean Valjean a death knell. 

Soon, a knock on the door, and Javert opened it to reveal a sweating and bemused Vasseur. The policeman let out an embarrassingly loud wheeze, before he clamped his mouth shut, making his jowls tremble slightly. 

"Could that be… Is that Monsieur le Maire?" the neighbor said, straining to see around the policemen, but Javert quickly blocked his view and handed the man a coin from his pocket, switching the five sous piece that he first found for a heftier five franc piece. 

" _Merci_ for your aid to the police, please enjoy your meal," Javert said dismissively and began to shut the door before adding, " _Bon appétit_." Then he nearly slammed it in the poor man's face. 

"Javert, you are blinded by your anger--" Valjean said, defeatedly. And Vasseur was listening, until Javert demanded the man's attention by cutting the older man off. 

"It is exactly as you see-- he is a parole-breaker, by the name of -- Jean Valjean." Javert declared. 

"I do not understand, how can this be?” Vasseur scratched his neck viciously. He had always been mulish when it came to believe what his eyes saw but his heart denied. 

In the ensuing silence Jean Valjean adjusted his shirt to cover his shoulder. Then he said, simply, "It is the truth." 

Javert directed towards him a disbelieving glare. "One of us needs to take him to jail and one to close down the mairie," he said, and an expression of frustration appeared on his face, as if he was berating himself for his own slowness of thought. "I must to go to the mairie and write up an official notice," he said forcefully, "Vasseur, you must take him to the jail. It is obvious." 

Hesitantly the confused policeman approached the man he still could not think of as anything other than the maire, and checked the man's pockets. But Valjean did not seem to care; his eyes were still fixed on Javert. "You need time… you need time…" he lamented. "It took me nearly twenty years to stop being angry but Javert, I do not have twenty years to give to you, the law will not grant it to me." 

Vasseur cleared his throat loudly then looked to his commander one last time. "Monsieur, Jean Valjean, show me your hands," he said, and quickly brushed away the cold sweat gathering on his upper lip. "You are under arrest." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I managed to visualize Madeleine wrestling with a mistress in the Canche, and furthermore this image is staying in my head, does this mean I need psychological help? --fengxiaoj
> 
> \---  
> 1\. Money denominations: Billet de banque. translation. Bank note.  
> Their value: 1000, 500, 100, 50, 20, 10, 5 francs. I've seen one bank note with value 5000 francs, but does not match the time.
> 
> LINKS:  
> Clearings, meadows, mountains.  
> http://www.cosmovisions.com/foret.htm  
> cow-wheat  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melampyrum_pratense  
> blackberry bush  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rubus


	56. Chaos

When Javert returned to his room, well past midnight, he was greeted by an unexpected whiff of smoke which stung his sinuses. He swatted the air with an impatient flick of his hand and recalled how in his haste he had left the candle to burn in the vacant room. Now it was down to a misshapen stump.

" _Putain_!" he cursed, not just for the waste of a candle worth five sous, but for everything which had happened. And how harrowing it all had been, and still was!

He had rushed to the mairie to notify the staff there of all which was to come: now that Madeleine had fallen to the law, his property must be seized, his factory, biggest employer in town, closed for investigation -- only to be struck by the realization that the men he was entrusting these duties to were themselves Madeleine's retainers in one way or another; men a vast majority of whom had been hired, confirmed in their posts, or promoted by that charlatan Maire, as he himself was. Even the rare few who had not been, certainly had a family member or friend who had been. The order of Montreuil-sur-Mer must now be safeguarded by a Mairie full of implicated men and a police department full of equally implicated men -- led by a chief of police who not too long ago spent a night in that man's bed, willingly stripped down to his shirt! Not just that, but unaware and defenseless against that brutish strength which could strangle a man to death with bare hands! Worst of all was a little fact which had been bouncing around in his head since the moment he began to contemplate his own testimony: he did not feel surprise. Why no surprise? Shouldn't a victim in a false identity case feel surprise?

"Equally implicated?"- a resolute shake of his head - " _Non_! Blind, stupid, and a prime suspect!" Javert whispered harshly.

The only man he could trust at the moment, was Vasseur, but even his trusted lieutenant was only able to offer the assurance that Jean Valjean had been fully cooperative. It was a mockery. And now when he ached for the familiar, even his room had turned into a crime scene. Everywhere he looked, he was confronted by evidence. Just on his table alone were at least two: that mysterious white bundle Madeleine brought with him and the small stack of official documents meant to be read, each one drafted on voided letterhead and signed with a false name. The world as he knew it was crashing down.

He strove to air out the room by unlatching his window and pushing it wide open. Then he turned to the bundle and unwrapped it to find a pair of silver candlesticks, heirloom-quality and well cared for. In they went to a repurposed an old box, along with all those documents which he wiped off the tabletop. Then he pulled out his chair and sat. Somewhere in that torrent of information and emotion he remembered a mention of a bishop's gift of stolen silver, but still he did not know whether they were stolen goods, a bribe, or a piece of confiscated possession. Or even a weapon.

The cravat of black silk and walnut-brown velvet jacket still lay on the ground, crumpled, the disguise of a criminal. He tossed them into the box, then dug roughly into his coat pocket to find that carved walnut he had carried across the country. In a supreme effort of restraint he dropped the nut into a corner of the box, instead of tossing it and risking a dent in the silver.

Lastly his eyes drifted to his bookshelf, full of items gifted not by that man but by that man's sister, a sister who had asked so many times whether that man was found. Were all her questions also an act?

He returned to his chair and laid out pen and paper across his now clean table. Now it was chilly and moths and mosquitoes danced around the wrought iron candle holder in the middle of his table, where a flickering flame floated atop a glistening pool of molten tallow. Even the room he rented to sleep in had become foreign and a test of his patience. What to tell her?

"Madame," he wrote, "Your brother is under arrest and will soon be on his way to court in Arras." It was the truth, the answer to her questions. And beyond the truth: "I always thought I wanted to see him again, if just to arrest him. But seeing him only exposed me to his lies once more, and if you have been honest to me, I advise you to forget him." He signed it, sealed it, then placed it into his pocket for mailing tomorrow. With some spit on his fingertips he quenched the flame.

As he lay under his blanket, some cold, slow part of his mind reminded him that soon his letters to the Secrétaire Chabouillet and the Prefect of Arras would be delivered. Then, the Gendarmerie would be allowed to come to his aid. Or perhaps to relieve him. Whatever it was, he must try to sleep, as Vasseur had suggested. They could expect little of it in the nights to come, if any at all. Tomorrow the battle will begin.

**\---**

The arrival of the diligence from Paris at the Poste station of Montreuil-sur-Mer was not announced by a cough-inducing, tear-jerking cloud of dust, but an unceremonious cacophony of squeaks. The older man of solemn outfit who was first to alight did so with no particular joy apparent on his face, yet he was glad indeed to finally step out of that charged atmosphere which reeked of garlic and sweat.

Second-rate hacks who referred to themselves as the distinguished reporters of " _Le Moniteur Universel_ " and " _Le Constitutionnel_ " were only the most bothersome of his cabin-mates. Undoubtedly alerted by the Fleur-de-lis engraved in his leather bag, they had repeatedly tried to engage him in conversation, first politely and later not-so-politely pried him for any "juicy tidbits" he wished to be made known. The stern countenance of Capitaine Thiérry, retired of the _Chaîne_ , never encouraged the mood for small talk and never failed to convey that he was a man who could not be convinced to do something he did not want. But this was no deterrent for men of unprecedented thick skin chasing the story that would make their careers. Eager to part ways with them, he nonetheless took a moment to give an appreciative look to the spirited horses which covered the final leg of the journey with unexpected speed.

Meanwhile, travelers continued to pour out of the carriage. Two young men whom in both their behavior and sense of fashion flaunted the vices currently in vogue in the capital, leapt wildly from their seats in the _impériale_ (roof-top seating) while shouting at him: “ _Pousse-toi, pépère_! (Move over, grandpa!)” For this they earned themselves the same look of disapproval once reserved for misbehaving murderers and rapists.

"Where is that Madeleine now?” cried one of the newcomers towards the handful of travelers busy elbowing each other to secure a seat on a cart bound for goodness knows where.

"Where this cart is going!" Supplied one helpful man.

"In jail, where else?" Replied a big-nosed man who was trying not to lose his hat.

Thiérry took the time to look around him. Although three crowded carts ready to leave at once, with a fourth vehicle waiting for space to enter the station was in no way an exceptional sight in Paris, here in a provincial town it was tantamount to chaos.

“Where is the jail?" asked loudly a seller carrying a huge basket of _guimauve_ (marshmallow). Faced with raised arms pointing in various directions, some opposite to each other, he let out a groan of disgust and turned instead to the group in front of the postmaster's desk.

Thiérry joined the crowd that as a river, swept down the street. He had agreed to make this sudden trip more as an excuse to get back on the road than because he shared the deep concern of his friend Chabouillet. "I still do not know exactly what is happening," the Secrétaire had admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose as always when he was upset. But what the man had said next had sounded more than a bit exaggerated: "This man Madeleine… Jean Valjean, had known Javert since Toulon, and they had been close in Montreuil-sur-Mer. A clever criminal with a history of escape attempts. If he escapes under Javert's watch, Javert's career as a policeman is over."

A well-run police department should be more than capable of securing one high-priority prisoner. But add into the mix town-wide disorder and everything changes. He knew his friend was right. And Javert stood to lose more than just his career -- a mishap which looked too close to intentional could land him in prison.

Thanks to his innate gift for navigation and the trained discipline to always arrive prepared, Thiérry did not need to take his map out from his bag, which in this crowd would be the fastest way to start trouble. However, knowing his way did nothing to make the crowd move faster. It was full of men busy drinking in the middle of the day and spreading rumors with the nonchalance which only complete strangers to everyone actually involved could manage.

"You heard the locals say that the chief of police Javert is Madeleine's only friend? Well I say 'friend' is clearly a euphemism! What kind of man would arrest his friend?" inquired one rhetorically. "No, no, no! All troubles start with a women; it is that Fantine who had mysteriously disappeared with her daughter which Madeleine takes to church--" opined another, only to be interrupted by a third, "Obviously Madeleine was torn trying to please two mistresses, and ended up losing all his money to one then getting arrested by the other!!" At this, the crowd erupted into laughter and whistles.

"Then that bastard is lucky to even keep the shirt on his back!" exclaimed a man whose beard was soaked with wine. "Didn't you hear? Madeleine's shirt and trousers were shredded, he had to cover himself with his hands while he hobbled all the way to the jail!” And so it went.

Behind them, Thiérry felt bile rise to his throat. He would never have expect that honest men could awake in him the same disgust as some of the most vicious prisoners of the _Chaîne_. It was simply disheartening. Fortunately, soon the river of people forked. The larger part swerved to the right and continued its advance, while the other, the one which Thiérry was a part, slowed its pace to a stop in an already crowded street.

The captain took advantage of his height to look over the vociferous heads. "Police de Montreuil-sur-Mer", read a large sign on the wall of the building not too far ahead.

By the time a man reaches the ripe old age of seventy, the sum of his life's work had left its mark on his body in a way that even retirement could not erase; it is for this reason that laborers walk with a back hunched by the weight they carried on their shoulders, fishermen have cracked skin on their arms, and farmers walk on unsteady legs because their lower backs no longer support them. But this man Thiérry stood tall and only the skin on his face appeared weathered and worn, because the wounds earned on the battlefield and its consequences were hidden from view. Even now the authority that his former rank had conferred upon him was both evident and irrefutable, and no one protested when he made his way through the crowd using only the necessary bluntness and a halo of indisputable legitimacy.

Thiérry's eyes followed the direction toward which many furious fists rose and eventually saw a small room in the basement of an ugly building. The glass panes of its door, already barred, had been reinforced with wooden planks. A beardless corporal faced the voices of contempt rifle in hand, entrenched behind an old desk turned onto its side, which served as a makeshift barrier to prevent indiscriminate access into the office. Two steps to his left and clearly visible from the outside, Javert sat behind his desk. He was examining the documents that were handed to him by a portly and visibly upset man.

The chief of police soon noticed his former captain and quickly made a signal to the soldier to allow entry. But after that and a respectful nod of the head in greeting, his attention was quickly reclaimed by the man voicing complaints in front of him.

"... All of us were here before this opportunist Madeleine arrived, and all of our businesses are legal..." insisted the angry storekeeper. "And now the police worries about protecting the criminal while investigating us, the good people? What will happen to our business if you cannot control the crowd that is outside the jail? Give them the criminal and lets be done with it!“ he demanded. From the queue, which snaked around various chairs and stools placed strategically in the room, came more than a few angry voices of assent.

“Jean Valjean, the man known to you as Madeleine, is going to serve public humiliation at Arras, not in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Whoever attempts to get their hands on any of the detainees in the custody of this department will end up behind bars. No exceptions." Javert delivered his terse words with an alarming numbness. Then he held up the papers he had just read and dismissed the man with a bleak, "Have a good day. Next!"

But Thiérry, now fully aware of the situation, interposed to request a few seconds from Javert before he attended the next person in the line. When the chief of police rose from his seat and looked back at him with bloodshot eyes, Thiérry tried to make his point without preamble: "Monsieur l’Inspecteur Chef, a colossal disaster is brewing outside. Not only the jail, but the Poste station and the main streets are crowded with people looking for trouble. Where are your men? I have not come across a single patrol..."

"We are short staffed. My second in command is watching the jail with the two men not under investigation, with the assistance of three soldiers..."

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur Chef, it is necessary to break up the crowd. It would be right to mobilize the Garde Nationale so they can patrol the streets, at least until the help from Arras arrives." Thiérry projected his jaw forward, waiting for the reaction that never came. "It is impossible to defend this police station with the support of a single soldier."

“Monsieur Thiérry, I cannot discuss this. Not here and not now." replied the dark-skinned chief of police wearily, before he sat back down and scribbled a few lines onto a piece of loose paper on his desk. Then he reached into his coat pocket and produced a key. "This is the address of my room and this is the key. Settle in there. It is impossible to find a single spare room in the whole town. The corporal will escort you."

The aged man frowned deeply and raised a gloved hand. "No, Monsieur. The escort is not necessary."

"You have chosen a bad time to visit..." Javert began somewhat apologetically, but by this point even the threat of the corporal's loaded gun could not keep the next man in line quiet. "Who is this man, jumping ahead in line?!" he demanded. "Have us wait for hours upon hours and allow him to just walk in?"

"It is not a visit." Thiérry said, to Javert's surprise. "When you return home tonight we will speak." After a brief nod, he left. He then spent the next two unsettling hours walking around Montreuil-sur-Mer, watching the situation and trying in vain to understand what was actually happening.

 

**\---**

 

Early the next morning, before the first light of the sun, the jail's heavy front door groaned as it opened to the curses of the four drunkards inside, complaining of a headache and the brightness of the lamps. But Jean Valjean, all the way in the cell furthest from the door, rose with the swiftness of a man who had not courted sleep at all and closed his hands around the bars in front of him, his gaze fixed on a point behind the two men who were entering. This intrigued Thiérry, so did the fact that as soon as the door closed, Valjean lost interest and sat back down on his plank.

The soldier in charge of the keys was slow to unlock the adjoining cells and then even slower to control those men which still smelled of alcohol once they were freed. Thus, the youngest of the drunks dodged around the soldier to stand in front of the now sole occupant of the prison and raise an accusing finger at him. "So you're that Madeleine... Is it true that you killed your mistress because she wanted to quit the gyspsy inspector's band of witches?" he asked indignantly.

Thiérry tsked and, before Valjean could figure out which of the words to refute first, grabbed the young man by the collar and pushed him toward the exit. "Jean Valjean, you will now be escorted to Arras for trial," he announced upon his return, as he gestured for that last door to be unlocked.

"Monsieur?" Valjean asked, glancing from the soldier to the door to the man clearly in charge. "You will escort me? We are departing now?"

Long years of experience had taught Thiérry that to treat a prisoner with politesse, man to man, was to introduce oneself as a weakling. It also taught him that there were exceptions to this rule. "I am Thiérry, former _Capitaine_ of the _Chaîne_. I have come out of retirement to escort you because of the extraordinary circumstances."

Valjean lowered his eyes to the vomit-stained floor. "I have made a mess!" he exclaimed. Something in his bowed head conveyed not only guilt, but also genuine shame.

"As someone who submitted himself to the judgement of the law, you only need to be responsible for your honesty. Everything else is Javert's duty, and the duty of men like me.” Thiérry noted that Valjean was a robust man whose white hair belied his years. Despite his torn shirt and the lack of a cravat, his tidily buttoned waistcoat and his calm demeanor gave him the respectable appearance of the kind of men he had pretended to be: a provincial magistrate. It was clear that this man was disappointed, though disappointment was not an emotion he would expect in a man who more than likely will spend the rest of his life behind bars.

"Before we depart, Captain Thiérry, may I speak to Javert one last time?"

This unusual request spurred Thiérry to furrow his brows. He had heard far too much over the past day to truly believe any of the rumors. Pointing a finger at the stone wall, he said, "In less than an hour the crowd will start to form again, around those four drunks we just released and who probably had not moved more than three steps past the doors. If you are gone before that, we can prevent the crowd from forming. You were Maire for two years and you should know this." It was simply the unmitigated truth.

"You may end the conversation at anytime. But please, Monsieur, consider granting a man who confessed his crimes voluntarily one final act of kindness: allow me to say something I did not have a chance to say."

"He is busy, but I will offer him the choice." Thiérry replied, and left quickly without acknowledging Valjean's words of gratitude.

Not long after, Javert burst into the jail with sharp, long strides and caring little about leaving Thiérry far behind. Recalling the words of his friend Chabouillet, the old captain feared that personal details would be mentioned, which would be like oil to the rumors already spreading like wildfire, no matter how innocent and mundane. He sent the soldier who accompanied them to prepare the carriage for the trip, and retreated to the farthest corner of the jail, trying to give them as much privacy as possible.

"Only one thing, Javert. You want to raise a son, that is right. But it does not require that you take a woman you do not love as a wife. You can be father to a child who would otherwise have no father, like Gavroche. There are many like him, just a ten minute walk away in the orphanage."

"You will tell me who to marry now? After you spent almost three years giving me orders on false authority?" Javert's face became perilously reddened with anger, but it only made the bags under his eyes look almost ghastly. "I do not even know how to explain to the widow Beaumont that I have a sickness…! That I am easily tricked by a convict, even all the way into his bed…!!"

For the first time, Valjean was about to lose his calm. His fists, white and tightening around the bars, began to tremble because of the hare-brained effort destined to break them. A pained expression crossed his face and made him close his eyes as tightly as his hands were. Then his anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. Only shame remained when dared to raise his head, first to glance at Thiérry, and then to stare at Javert with a tenderness which would have been very hard to fake.

"It was not a trick," he said finally, as the lamp light reflected in his eyes. "As a repeat offender I will be one of the expendable men in the _bagne,_ sent to construct the ship frame, every day at risk of being washed into the ocean. If even one guard remembers me and holds a grudge against me from my previous years, it will be far worse. And it will be a sentence of at least twenty years. You know how it is, a convict needs to be a brute to survive, which I refuse to be once more. We will not see each other again. Though you could not forgive me for what I have done, are these really the last words you wish to speak to me?"

The only thing more obvious than the fact that Javert was moved by Valjean's words, was the fact that he was in a death struggle to fight against it. "I can't tell whether this is yet another trick or if you are actually expressing remorse!" The chief of police ignored Valjean's attempt to speak. "But if it is remorse, why did you not find it after stealing that loaf of bread, not after your first escape attempt, not the second, the third… not even the fourth?!" With a wild motion he changed his grip on his cane, nearly dropping it. "You asked me to close my eyes and…! But who I remembered was the convict, who was…" he made an almost helpless, sweeping gesture with his cane "... good at carrying things! Well? Did the wood in Toulon become too heavy after I left? Why didn't you just carry things for another year, instead of turning into whatever you are now, some pathological, never to be trusted liar!!"

And then the lead-topped cane was swung so hard at the bars that it flew out of Javert's hand and clattered onto the floor, not far from where Valjean had already lowered his eyes to. His lips pressed into a thin line. Trying to fight back his tears, because there were no words left.

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I beg your pardon!" Thiérry shouted, a command to stop and not an apology -- "You are trying to intimidate the prisoner!" But his rush forward was not necessary, because Javert turned his back to the convict then stooped to pick up his cane, and was once more in control of himself. With a shaking hand that nearly knocked his hat off to one side, he touched the brim of it and said tersely, " _Merci, Capitaine_. For doing this escort -- I trust you to get him there without incident."

"No!" Thierry said, stopping Javert from heading straight out the door. "One word, Monsieur." Then, pulling the taller man by the arm to a corner, he struggled mightily with his choice of words before expressing his disbelief: "A man can choose another man over a woman, that is not against the law, but to spend a night in your direct superior's bed? Do you not know better than this, do you not know that is indefensible?" His words made the once towering and imposing chief of police flinch as if physically struck.

"Go. Do not think on this until the relief Chabouillet sent arrives. I will do my part." Thierry took a moment to watch Javert make his exit before turning to his disconsolate charge. "We leave now."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Candle holder: http://www.blackbearforge.com/images/Candle_holder_1.jpg
> 
> Picture of a diligence where you can see the "impériale" on the roof. https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b3/Gotthardpostkutsche.jpg/1024px-Gotthardpostkutsche.jpg  
> Main daily newspapers:  
> http://gallica.bnf.fr/html/und/presse-et-revues/les-principaux-quotidiens  
> Le Moniteur Universel  
> https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Le_Moniteur_universel  
> France Shield (1814-15 and 1815-1830)  
> https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Restauration_%28histoire_de_France%29  
> Kitchen and specialties of Pas de Calais: tidbit  
> https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuisine_et_sp%C3%A9cialit%C3%A9s_du_Nord-Pas-de-Calais#Sucreries_et_friandises  
> Guimauve  
> https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guimauve_%28confiserie%29


	57. Exit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE to readers: We are now entering a critical part to the story and for the next ~ 5 chapters we will try to do things a little differently. We will try to post twice as fast (1 to 1.5 weeks per chapter) by making chapters half the length. A lot of drama and suffering awaits...
> 
> CORRECTION: We referred to the road Rue Pierre Ledent on numerous occasions. This is an anachronism, as we recently realized that Pierre Ledent was mayor of Montreuil from 1945 to 1972. Maps that we have recently found, let us assume that the name of that street had been for an indefinite number of years, "La Grande Rue". This was its name in 1888. Unfortunately, we have not found our way to more precise information.
> 
> http://www.archivespasdecalais.fr/Activites-culturelles/Carrousels/Monographie-communale-d-un-instituteur-de-Montreuil-sur-Mer

Voices which were thick and rough chased the fiacre for a short stretch until the horses hit their stride. Inside its battered cabin Valjean stared at his feet while Thiérry watched on with concealed tension. 

Something hit the side of the cart very near the window. The leather curtain folded inward under the partial impact, allowing glass fragments and a small trail reeking of spirits to fall on the prisoner. Valjean remained oblivious, as if his odd meditation was more pressing than the threats Thiérry was well aware of. 

Trotting horses reached the back of the vehicle, and someone barked orders in an Eastern accent. Silence fell as the bleary face of a gendarme appeared briefly at the window and nodded in greeting. The old Capitaine barely refrained from scolding him for his tardiness, as this would not do in front of a prisoner. 

A small pang of envy prompted Thiérry to cast a glance toward the once again covered window. The former officer missed his time going through the great roads, riding in front with his lieutenant in order to ward off his men of any danger. Now, instead of scanning the horizon and breathe freely, he guessed about how the coachman should feel. Thiérry almost sighed. 

The shaking inside the cart became almost unbearable as they reached the old cobblestone of the bridge without slowing down. Thiérry braced up in his seat just in time to avoid being thrown out by the vicious pothole that had his prisoner's shoulder crashing violently into the coachwork, an abrupt breath escaping his lungs. Otherwise, no pain, no resentment could be read in the man's features. The chain holding Valjean's bound feet had suddenly tensed, and to the Capitaine's vexation, the dark stain around his right ankle sprout briskly. 

Thiérry knew that only skin covered with scars could tear and bleed to such extent under the bite of metal. Nineteen years in the galleys, Thiérry recalled. Sufficient to destroy any prisoner's body. The man sitting opposite him, was not his junior for many years. The color of his hair had faded; the wrinkles on his forehead were deep and perhaps made him look older. Thiérry would not have been surprised to learn that his joints pained Valjean in humid mornings like this one. 

Yet the Capitaine failed to understand why a man who had known wealth and power had waived them and voluntarily placed himself in so dreadful a situation, simply because his conscience had shouted louder than his instincts for self-preservation. Maybe it really was related to Javert and the feelings Madeleine had all but confessed in the presence of Thiérry. 

At the same time, it was absurd to think that an industrial and magistrate, who for years had been generous to the folly and apparently blameless in every one of his acts, gave in to impulses that head toward a relationship that was morally repugnant and worse, an abomination in the eyes of God. Thiérry wondered how so many contradictions could fit inside the same man. 

“I know all the things the police knows of Jean Valjean. That you are from Faverolles, a pruner. That you have a sister, the one Javert asked Chabouillet to find, so he could deliver money to. That you did not steal money but bread....” 

Valjean raised his head abruptly and fixed Thiérry with wide open eyes, freshly out from a trance. The faked maire was not a nice man, but sullen despite his reputation. He could be as broken as any sane man in his circumstances would be, but since Javert left the prison Valjean had locked himself in a wearying secrecy, silent as stone. Now his resolve gave out in the eyes of the old officer. Thiérry was astonished by the raw, devastating emotions struggling to seize the prisoner's features: shock, disbelief and the desperate need to fight it; hope too overwhelming to be denied, and for a moment, joy that could not be bent by chains. Until Valjean looked back at his chained hands and his shoulders sagged. When the man finally managed to speak, his voice was hoarse from disuse. 

“Did Javert found Jeanne?” A question spoken almost in wonder and to himself, that did not expect to be answered. 

Thiérry nodded while wondering what could have startled the prisoner so deeply. So Javert never told a word about the matter. It only could mean that Javert truly failed to recognize the former convict. Oddly, because the Capitaine never allowed himself to think about the possibility of Javert being dishonest, Thiérry felt relieved and willing to elaborate. But Valjean had turned and was raising his chained hands to hold the curtain. In an instant he was engrossed staring through the window, while only revealing his expressionless profile to the Capitaine’s gaze. A droplet of blood fell from the rusty handcuffs up the sleeves of his torn shirt. 

The older man took the opportunity to peek through the window. Only trees grew on both sides of the road, a green and boring sea. To a military man, the trees were always the same, here as in Limoges and surely also in Faverolles. A tiny movement made him turn his eyes to Valjean, just in time to watch the convict press his lips into a thin line while his Adam's apple bobbed, as trying to swallow something bitter. Thiérry was perplexed. This forest should be a beautiful sight for a pruner, if the man loved his trade, and for some reason - perhaps because Madeleine's work discipline suggested it - Thiérry knew that this was the case for Jean Valjean. 

The Capitaine could picture Valjean’s square hands strengthening, grafting, and healing trees whose names were familiar, completely unaware of what the future held for him. No doubt in his youth, this quiet man had very little ambition: to work, to eat whenever it was possible, to sleep soundly and to wake again in order to take care of trees that belonged to another man, but still were his doing. 

For some reason unknown to Thiérry, fate made too many mouths depend on him, perhaps from the overnight. And perhaps it was out of desperation, perhaps it was out of anger, he put himself like a fool between the jaws of a relentless machine that eventually would not fail to destroy him. Years ago, Valjean said goodbye to all those who were left behind, like that one Jeanne. And now he was silently saying goodbye to other people who might have come to appreciate him. To the foolish hope Javert denied him. Making his farewell to the northern forests, which no doubt he loved. It occurred to Thiérry that in the Bagne trees do not grow. Then he also swallowed thickly. 

They traveled lost in thought until night fell and the cobbled streets of Arras replaced the dirt road. Thiérry then decided to break the silence. "I will ask Javert for the newest contact information for your sister, and you have my guarantee that news of you will reach her," he offered graciously. 

"No. I had searched for her for many years and eventually I decided it is better for her to think I am dead. Why tell her her brother is alive, just so she can see him sentenced to life imprisonment? There is no reason.” 

Thiérry considered Valjean’s words thoughtfully . He could recognize the well controlled ferocity of the man who knows his anger to be pointless. Perhaps Madeleine was not just a facade, but the next step in the growth of a pruner who was still resisting his criminal fate, but who did not quite find his place in the world. 

The fiacre slowed as the driver urged the horses to a stop. 

"I have seen so many young men who do not know right from wrong that I never stopped to appreciate someone who managed to succeed after a bad start. And yet looking at you, I can only see a life that is lost, because you took too long to find your way.” Thiérry took a breath. To spare a convict was the last thing he wanted. However there were facts that were undeniable. “You made a bad choice because of a bad situation. In the end, the choice to serve your rightful sentence or to run was yours alone. So were the thefts and this noble act of turning yourself in. It is a shame.” 

“Yes it took too long to find the right way. And after that, too long to find the courage to take the right path. But it is done. There are no more wrong choices left for me to make.“ 

“Have you other family left? That woman Fantine and her child... " 

Thiérry watched as Valjean clenched his jaws. With a bitter voice, heavy with terrible, frightening fatigue the prisoner replied: “Leave them be.” 

The convict climbed out of the carriage with his eyes stubbornly fixed on the ground. Thiérry walked him into the police station escorted by the gendarmes. When they were about to part ways, the elder man grabbed abruptly his upper arm. The Capitaine felt hard muscle tensing under his grip, no doubt anticipating pain. But Valjean’s gaze was hollow, like those Thiérry had learned to recognize in the men who on their journey with the _Chaîne_ fell on the road never to rise again. Something about it sickened the old officer. 

"Make yourself useful at Toulon. The first three years will be hard, but now you are an educated man. With good behavior, you can become an _éprouvé._ Perhaps the Fathers Ignorantins would accept to have you at their service. You could help men learn to read and write." 

Valjean straightened and raised his head to look at Thiérry dead in the eye. Regarding Thiérry, the convict was again Madeleine, the man from whom people said he used to live in isolation, willingly apart from his fellow men, but even so, working in their favor. Without ever becoming truly free. 

As a guard shoved Valjean with his truncheon through the hallway, the convict managed to turn and nodded towards Thiérry. 

\--- 

The trial for Jean Valjean on Thursday in late October lasted but one afternoon. He had no lawyer. When he was sentenced to the guillotine on November 3, 1822, the white headed man merely lowered his head in acceptance. 

\--- 

Javert combed through evidence with the fanaticism a man on a hunt for justification -- specifically the retroactive kind, for an act already done and by his own hand. Day after day he toiled at his desk with the single-mindedness of a man possessed, while his superiors in Arras and Paris rushed this high-priority case through the justice system. Soon a trial date was set and a new maire appointed. Voters of all professions jumped at the opportunity to travel to Arras and serve on the jury. With the departure of the jurors, the case was officially closed. 

And at the end of two months of tedium - of confirming business transactions, cross-referencing tax records, and comparing testimony of menial laborers against that of government bureaucrats - he had found nothing, not even a hint of illegal activity by Madeleine to add to the charge of possession of a fake passport. Nor will any violations be likely to surface in the future, not after all the case files were already sent to Paris and not after the judicial auctioneers had already seized all of the evidence to be sold, especially the pair of silver candlesticks, the only pieces of significant monetary value. He still had not decided whether they were a gift, a weapon, stolen goods, or something else entirely, when they were taken out of his hands. While the man was too kind to the downtrodden, too generous towards his own workers, none of those things were in violation of the law. 

When the jurors returned bearing news of the death sentence, Javert left his office and wandered the streets. 

This night, amidst laughter and toasts of celebration, many residents of Montreuil-sur-Mer noticed a lone figure standing under a street sign, raising a lantern up to it. There he remained for so many minutes that passersby might be moved to assume this man was one of the many from out of town who had come to join the celebrations because, after all, the style of triple-caped greatcoat on him was dated but still in use by many of the older men, not only by their town's chief inspector. 

A few even walked closer to take a look at the sign themselves, expecting to find something wrong with it. However, the two signs on the post simply proclaimed the intersecting streets to be Rue du Tripot and Cavée Saint Fermin, nothing out of the ordinary. 

But even if a particularly kind-hearted resident inquired of this man: "What are you searching for?" They would surely have wasted their breath, because he was no more capable of answering this question than a child who had been born blind could respond to the question: "What does your maman look like?" Perhaps if he tried to answer out of politeness, he would say, "An exit." Of course, this was all speculation, for no one bothered. Anyone who ventured close enough saw the cane in his hand, and thus recognized him to be Inspector Javert. 

After some time, they were simply satisfied to see that he was no longer there. 

In fact, after some minutes Javert had simply moved on, in hope that the next street he walked down would take him away from the dead-end at which his thoughts had stopped. For as chief inspector, was he not the leading authority on justice in this town? If such a great deed of justice had been done as was so clear to everyone, why did he feel the way he did, like a man whose soul was lost in the dark, a man stripped of his purpose, no matter what face he showed to world every day patrolling the markets? How come no matter where he walked he saw no reason for joy, and every reason for the opposite? 

The night was half over and sound of the crowds mostly silenced when a sharp, pungent scent of wine prompted Javert to lower his lantern down to the ground. A clear trail of spilled wine, running blood-red along the cracks between dirty cobblestones led him to make a left then a right into an alley consisting mostly of back doors of the businesses along Rue Pierre Ledent. Some distance ahead a group of three, all supporting themselves against a wall, were chatting loudly. 

"... that testimony! What was that name again, that sister who sent the letter…" 

"It was something like Benedictine*… she tried to convince the judge that a convict who did not even have a coat had not stolen the four pounds of sterling silver in his pocket!" 

"... they were a gift her brother some Bishop gave willingly, she said…! Did you believe it, 'He did not mean it as a gift of coin, but a gift at another chance at honesty'? Thought I'd misheard her, even cleaned out my ears! … and Bamatabois, your counter-argument was the best!" 

"Forks and spoons and even a pair of candlesticks, so even a dog can set himself a candle-lit table on the street!" said the man proudly - he threw something into the ground, which shattered - "Like this one!" 

They laughed and laughed. The uneven ground crunched under Javert's boots as he approached - a clear sign of broken glass. 

All policemen, even the most raw recruits in M-s-M, knew that men could become drunk enough to no longer distinguish words from a fist. Javert knew this, as clearly as he knew that any policeman would be ill-advised to engage this type of situation alone. But a ping of something in his breast propelled his hand to grab the chin of the first man he could reach and lift his face towards the lamp. It was flushed, sweaty, and belonged to one Sauveterre, a son of local bourgeois. "It is past midnight and all three of you are drunk. Go home peacefully or spend the night in jail." He commanded. 

A hand on his chest shoved him into the wall. "What? We were told to leave the _cabaret_ (bar), so we did! Nothing wrong here, go walk somewhere else!" Both the man's breath and the aggression in the way he shouted into Javert's face suggested that he had been drinking for many hours prior. 

"No, Bamatabois, no! You are out of your mind! This one is Javert!" 

Javert struck the man across the head with his cane. But before he could make a second swing, a searing pain in his side took his breath and took his footing. The rim of his hat crumpled having taken the brunt of the impact with the wall but did not prevent the back of his head and neck from becoming engulfed in pain; instead the hat scraped down over his eyes, taking away his sight. The world fell into darkness. 

He felt the cobblestones against his back and felt his side with his hand. Something protruded from it. Then his hand burned too, it stung and was wet. His ears were still ringing when he was able to hear again -- "You idiot! Run!" 

Footsteps pounded in his ears; even they sounded wet and splattering, but the pain clouding his thoughts was so severe he did not trust his senses. Much time seemed to pass. More than once his hand seemed to slip against the cobblestone, and more than once he became aware that a fire was burning near him, because he was carrying a lantern and it must have been dropped, and he wondered whether it would burn him before he could get away. 

Next, all of a sudden, he became aware of hands patting down his thighs and his hips. In his disoriented state he could only think that the last time he felt hands like this they were the hands of the convict. But that was different, and the convict would never come back. And the notions of a weapon check, and a searching for his passport crossed his mind as he reached for one of the hands blindly and caught it by the wrist. It flinched away, too slippery to grip. 

"You will not rob me…" he managed, before fully losing consciousness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fiacre  
> https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fiacre_%28hippomobile%29
> 
> Rue du Tripot corner with Cavée Saint Fermin.  
> https://www.google.es/maps/@50.4655016,1.7638842,18z
> 
> Some pictures of Cavée Saint Fermin. This street inspired Hugo while writing les Misérables.  
> http://histopale.net/les-archives/montreuil-sur-mer/la-cavee-saint-firmin/
> 
> Benedictine: Baptistine, sister of Myriel, Bishop of Digne.


	58. What God has joined, men must not divide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CORRECTION: Ugh, I keep forgetting that Chabouillet had been promoted to Secretaire of the Préfet de Police (making him the right hand man of the big boss of police in all of France). His title has been corrected as of this notice. -fengxiaoj

As the shabby cart made its entrance on the Grand-Place of Arras, loaded with chained men who, like Jean Valjean, shivered under the cold drizzle of January, the loose cobblestones caked in reddish mud began to quake.  


A shouting crowd left the arcades of the buildings all around the square and flooded into the vast rectangle running towards the wagon as one man. Valjean watched absently how the draft horses frightened by the noise, by the crowd practically barring their path, stamped the ground. His fellow prisoners yelled and kicked in the grip of panic, trying to avoid the grabbing hands stretched towards them. But it was Valjean who these people were looking for. He bowed his head in prayer; if this was to be his end, he wanted to leave at peace with God. 

Nearly two months ago, a judge of Arras sentenced him to death by guillotine. Another judge asked if he could provide evidence to support the cassation, a second trial. Valjean said no. When the time to seek for the King's pardon came, Valjean refused again. There were those who saw in it a proof of his cynicism; there were those who tried to make him change his mind. Valjean remained impassive. 

Voices repeating the Prefect of Arras' daily orders: to dust off the guillotine, to oil and sharpen its blade reached his ears often. Some newcomers who happened to pass under his window before the curfew had fun by recounting loudly how they had seen the stage intended to support the "national razor." 

Alone in his tiny cell, Valjean just waited. He had been given a lead pencil and paper to write his goodbyes; he ended up drawing rosaries, all he learned to draw on all his years. In his last days, it was as if God the Father guided his hand, in a secret and comforting communion. After a month, he had enough models designed as to launch a new collection, with innovative linkers, with simple crosses that had never been so beautiful. 

Shaking his head, he sometimes thought that they would have been the greatest successes of Madeleine's factory. Now their only importance was to bring him closer to God. It was all that he could still hope for. 

Two weeks later, when everyone gave him up for dead, when each one was expecting to witness the execution of the greatest fraud that the region had never known - a very violent criminal, some said. A killer, said others - came from Paris Valjean's commutation. No wonder that all these people, angry and frustrated, wanted to see his blood. But the guillotine was missing. 

The shrill sound of whistles took him out of his prayer. The municipal police surrounded the cart and charged at the troublemakers. When their efforts were insufficient, gendarmes on horseback came to their help, and finally managed to open the way to the platform awaiting them, high and gloomy, mounted to one side of the esplanade. Only occupied by three wooden poles. 

The _garde-chiourme_ pulled Valjean and his neighbors off the car by hitting them mercilessly. The three of them walked toward the stage to the painfully familiar, short and rhythmic pace imposed by their chains. His fellow in the customary _"exposition"_ were tied to their poles with ropes; he was fixed with chains. 

Valjean tried to look into the gray sky, but his eyes fell on the large sign that was nailed just above his head. 

"Jean Valjean, 53, alias Madeleine. Highwayman...”, it read. 

Jean Valjean knew himself to be a thief and a con man but until recently, he had never thought of himself as a highwayman. The bloodthirsty kind of criminal that all of France knew capable of cutting a poor devil's throat to get a 100 sous coin. Yet this was what the judge called him. Valjean was not so naive as to believe that judges were fair, and he would not have given a second thought to the matter, were he able to forget the terrified face of the young chimneysweep to whom he refused to give back a paltry 40 sous coin. It was certainly along a highway. In the middle of nowhere, with no help in sight. Perhaps Petit Gervais feared for his life; perhaps rightly so. 

And before even that, seven children of his own blood already died because of his inability to provide. As surely as if he had stabbed them. He knew their mother survived them, maybe losing her sanity in the process. He knew of hardened criminals who had gone mad for less. Would Jeanne be able to forgive the bitterness, the hatred borne of what her brother did to her? Nobody would. 

The damage Valjean caused throughout his existence justified in his own eyes a death sentence. But God knew that for a harmful failure of his kind, death can be tantamount to relief and to sink into oblivion the ultimate blessing. So, in His infinite wisdom He had imposed upon Valjean a terrible fate: the _Bagne_. Who was Valjean to doubt God's plan? To believe that he deserved better than the darkness that would erase from his memory Bishop Myriel, and that will change his memories of Javert into torture. He will live the remaining of his days waiting for the hatred that would tear his soul, taking away from him even his last hope to reach heaven. 

A lump of mud slammed into his overgrown beard. Rotten vegetables followed; then horse dung. The gendarmerie turned a blind eye, small wonder. Valjean was only sorry for the two poor men who had the misfortune to share the stage with him. 

The man tied to his left screamed when a stone hit his head. Four gendarmes were ordered to deploy on the platform, and a young military man wearing the badge of lieutenant loudly demanded to be allowed to examine the convict, arguing that he belonged to the _Service de Santé des Armées_ (Health Service of the Army). 

The lieutenant was rejected with little tact, but far from being intimidated, he took possession of the space that one of the gendarmes just set free, opposite Valjean. 

The convict looked at him with interest. He was a man entering his prime, with a round face which gave him a boyish look. Something in his stiff posture reminded him dearly of Javert. But there was something in his face - which did not convey scorn, but empathy - that was oddly familiar. Something which Valjean could not place. 

The lieutenant eyed him in return with professional intensity, pausing at his right hip and then his ankle. The young man seemed about to speak, but then suddenly turned and began to roughly open his way through the crowd. When he came to a stop a few meters further it was next to a petite woman, with long graying hair loosely gathered under a spotless bonnet. 

Valjean's heart sank at his feet; helplessly, he lowered his head. 

“Jean! Valjean!” The woman shouted, and it was as if seven tiny pairs of hands relentlessly scratched at Valjean's insides. 

“Jean Valjean!” The woman repeated tirelessly, her voice loud and strained. 

Valjean finally raised his head and looked at her. He saw the young lieutenant wrap a protective arm around her shoulders. He gasped. But when he next noticed Thiérry making his way quickly by her side, he gave a horrified, useless jerk to his chain. 

"Jeanne! Why are you--" The _garde-chiourme_ ’s truncheon fell upon Valjean. Three sharp, vicious blows hit his torso. Two on his sides, another one squarely on his chest. Each one robbing Valjean of his breath, darkening his sight with a pain he no longer remembered. Valjean doubled over, his knees wavering for a moment as he threw up bile and spittle near his shoes. Then, his chains drove him back abruptly while the _garde-chiourme_ , visibly proud of his handiwork shouted at him: "Shut up, Jean Valjean, Monsieur highwayman!" 

As Valjean lifted his head, his sister Jeanne was pressing a fist to her mouth. Then she affected to cough and smiled that smile of hers always meant to convey strength. 

"Javert sent me a letter!" She paused briefly, and Valjean almost thought she would scold him as in the past, for being so slow-witted. "Do not worry, Jean, I am well. So is Marcel, and Marie Jeanne, Dominic, and Louis. Andthis is Pierre." 

From the height of the platform, which allowed him to see many meters ahead of him, Valjean pursed his lips to hide the sudden trembling of his chin. He focused on the young officer and repeatedly nodded in appreciation when Pierre straightened up to his full height and bowed his head in respectful greeting. And Valjean, who often struggled to find words, was again unable to remain silent. 

“Jeanne, please forgi--” he had shouted when the _garde-chiourme_ 's truncheon struck him right in the face, brutally and without warning. A jet of blood burst from his nose and mouth, and he staggered. At some point, the ringing in his ears lessened and the shouts of the crowd became violently loud. But to ignore them was not more difficult than to ignore the pain. Valjean tried to dry the blood soaking his beard with the shred of shirt that still covered his shoulder, and failed. Then he spat and leaned against the post. He locked eyes with Jeanne, and the sea of heads keeping them apart disappeared, making room for a quiet understanding. A stream of affection that nothing would force into silence. Valjean shifted his gaze only for a moment, the time he needed to acknowledge the words spoke by Thiérry's robust voice: "I will tell her everything I know." 

The old Capitaine carefully grabbed one of Jeanne's arms and dragged the woman slowly behind him as he began to turn people away to get closer the stage. Now the three of them stood close enough to the gendarmes for the former Capitaine to be seen by their commander, the same man to whom he had committed Valjean's custody a few months earlier. With this maneuver, Thiérry had just left the official with no choice but to call his men to order if the situation got out of hand. 

Long moments passed before the _garde-chiourmes_ took the prisoners away from the platform. Jeanne de Val, exhausted but unbroken, turned to the Capitaine as soon as her brother was out of sight. 

“I thank you Capitaine, for the King’s commute. My son wanted to make himself a petition as soon as he knew that Jean lacked a proper attorney. But in the _Palais de Justice_ he was informed that a request was already made by powerful gentlemen.” 

As an answer, Thiérry only pursed his lips and said, "I am no longer a Capitaine. Call me Thiérry." 

"Jean has a family?" Asked Jeanne, a glimmer of hope briefly crossing her face. 

“Montreuil-sur-Mer police investigation showed that Javert is his only friend. Valjean provided for a boy who is at the orphanage, but the child does not seem to be related to him. However, there is a woman and her daughter. Valjean was treating them as his family and used to spend time with the child in public. Comments ran through the city, but nothing is confirmed. And Valjean refuses to talk about it. The last time mother and daughter were seen in Montreuil-sur-Mer, they purchased tickets on a coach to Paris. The Police is still investigating.” 

“Will I be notified if they are found?" 

“I will do my best.” Thiérry touched the edge of his hat in farewell, but Jeanne stopped him by resting her hand very lightly on the former captain’s forearm. 

“Monsieur Thiérry, was it Javert that denounced him?” 

Thiérry scanned the woman's face in search for anger or bitterness. He found nothing but grief. Grimly, he nodded. Jeanne looked down and mirrored his gesture slightly. Beside her, Pierre once again wrapped an arm across her shoulders. “Uncle Jave… that is to say, Inspector Javert was always very clear about the matter in his letters. It is not a surprise to us.” He cleared his throat then added pensively: “It is as it always was meant to be.” 

The sound of dragging chains was getting louder now that the square emptied of people. Thiérry spent a few minutes more in conversation with Jeanne and her son, until from behind the platform echoed the order to give water to the convicts, harbinger of the imminent departure for a long journey. Thiérry made his excuses and left. 

If the goal of the authorities was for the cart to reach Paris in time to join the next Chaîne, then the convoy would have to harshly force its pace. Under the present circumstances, it seemed likely to Thiérry that they delayed the departure waiting for Valjean in order to avoid custody problems. 

The _garde-chiourmes_ rushed among the prisoners sitting on the ground. So early in their trip, they were teaching to the convicts the protocol observed in the transport of prisoners. As expected, they were generous with their kicks and truncheon blows. Thiérry walked steadily toward the Gendarmerie Commander and held out his hand. They exchanged observations while watching how the chains that bound the prisoners together in groups, six in each row, were thoroughly checked. That was how Thiérry knew his suspicions confirmed, and it was also how he obtained the unusual courtesy to speak with a convict. 

Valjean was the latest in a row, deference often given to the " _cheval de retour_ " (returning horse, meaning repeat offender) as it placed them near the reach of truncheons. When Thiérry stood beside him, the man did not look up, he affected to not even notice the Capitaine's presence. There are lessons a man does not forget. Thiérry nudged his ankle, and only then Valjean bowed his head in greeting. 

As he began to talk quietly, Thiérry’s gaze was fixed on the opposite building, his body serving as a shield between the closest _garde-chiourme_ and Valjean himself. "I know the captain of the _Chaîne_ that will leave Paris next month. He is a righteous man. Do not get into trouble and you will be well treated.” 

Valjean nodded, still staring at Thiérry’s shiny shoes. The elder man approached him one step further. "Your sister asks for your forgiveness. She regrets having put so much weight on your shoulders when you were still so young.” 

Valjean blinked in confusion. In his bloodstained face where his nose and lips began to swell dawned an expression very similar to thankfulness. "She wants you to know," Thiérry went on, “that she will always be grateful for the money you sent.” 

But this time Valjean looked up and gave him a blank stare, and a stubborn barely perceptible shake of the head. 

“She talked about the 200 francs that you earned fighting at Toulon. It allowed her to recover her children and start again. " 

"I never earned a sou! ... Javert! I'm sure he did it, he gave ... " 

Valjean dropped his head between his shoulders and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, as to relieve an unbearable pressure. A few drops of blood fell from his mouth. 

"Speak!" ordered Thiérry, keeping an eye on the increasingly impatient _garde-chiourme_ nearby the convict. 

“You do not understand, Capitaine… Javert… he gave a meaning to all of this.. “ Valjean gestured helplessly around him with his chained hands. “All these years, they were not lost … And how did I repay him?” 

Valjean said no more. However as his chest keep sharply heaving, an expression heavy with both guilt and shame appeared on his face. "... is he well?" he asked hesitantly. 

The former captain pressed his lips until they lost their color, a hard frown altering his features. He turned his face away from Valjean before answering. 

“He is well.” 

\--- 

The unadorned wooden door of the infirmary swung open to reveal a bright, uncluttered hallway with additional doors each bearing its own easy-to-read sign. A room for men. A separate room for women. Beyond them were a treatment room and even a small room dedicated to children. Then, clean through to the opposite wall of the small building, this hallway terminated as a wall of rows upon rows of shelves, extending all the way from floor to ceiling. 

Either the original designer of this building was overzealous with storage space or these shelves used to hold far more supplies -- now most of it lay empty with what supplies remained appearing to be placed ludicrously far apart. A woman referred to by the name of Perpétue and working with rolled up sleeves reached into the back of one shelf to fish out a bottle of something, which she handed to an appreciative young helper. When it appeared that she had a moment to spare, Thiérry helped himself past the unattended front desk to approach her. 

"Sister Perpétue," he pointed at the closed door just behind them. "Do many children become sick or injured in this town? 

The eyes of the middle-aged woman lingered on the door with a pained dismay before they met his gaze. "No, I wouldn't say so, Monsieur," she responded. "Monsieur Madeleine intended it to also serve as a nursery for children of patients or any of his workers who have an emergency. But we have not money to keep it open, so it is just an empty room now!" 

"Mhm," the retired captain nodded, and the muscles around his eyes tightened along deep wrinkles as he spared another glance at the door. 

"Are you here for the visiting hour?" 

"Yes, I am here to see Javert." 

"Javert! Humph!" Her tone of voice took a sudden and unexpected turn as she thrust her fists onto her hips. "He is scheduled to go into surgery this afternoon, and the doctor will try again to dig out all the glass shards. Hopefully then he won't need to be back a fourth time!" 

Thiérry watched on as Perpétue let out a snort and glanced down the hallway behind him, in the way everyone does to make sure they were not needed and probably will not be for a while. He held his hat against his chest and prepared himself for the anticipated tirade. But as he had not known that Perpétue was actually on staff when Javert was found that morning and brought in for treatment, he was surprised when her words painted a picture of unsettling detail; of a coat rendered unliftable by blood, of shattered glass only recognizable as the parts of a bottle because of a fragment of its narrow neck, of a doctor who had summoned a sister into the treatment room because he feared the patient would die. How the situation was so dire that she had placed a rosary into the patient's palm and closed his fingers around it, despite her strong suspicions that gypsy men did not believe in God, and told him of God's mercy, of His forgiveness for anything and everything he wished to repent. She described the way he gripped the rosary and would not let go of it, even though he said nothing, only shook his head. How when she asked him whether there was anyone in town he wanted her to try and find for him, at first he only kept shaking his head… so when finally he changed his mind and requested for the widow Beaumont, she had rushed halfway across town to find her, then rushed to get her into the room -- 

Only to have him tell her, "I do not love you." 

"... He didn't say 'I love you', like any other reasonable human being. What he said to the poor woman was 'I do not love you. I will only feel a duty to you if I sign a piece of paper, and even then, failure would not be this unbearable.' … And of course she slapped him! For the first time in my life I did not care to protect a patient!" 

With the story having reached its conclusion, Perpétue glared at Thiérry expectantly as she caught her breath and attempted to calm herself. Perhaps she was expecting agreement, or at least some sort of validation of her feelings. But the eternally composed man simply took everything in and said sincerely, " _Merci_ , sister. That was not what I expected you to say, yet it was exactly what I needed to know. You have been helpful. God bless you." He gestured over his shoulder, "He is to be found in that room for men?" 

Though Perpétue humphed again, she responded apologetically. "Yes. Fifth bed." 

After bidding her farewell, Thiérry walked the few steps to the appropriate door -- but not without casting a weary glance at the crate stowed under one of the benches. Rosaries overflowed from it and a few could be seen draped over the edge. On it were emblazoned the words "Manufactures Madeleine". He sighed. 

\- 

The room in which patients stayed was almost a different reality sheltered between closed walls. The air carried the distinctively stifling scent of _eau de Javel_ (precursor to bleach), which never ceased to remind him - however faintly - of friends lost long ago, in the war fought before its invention. Yet at the same time around many of the beds entire families huddled within its crude privacy curtain, bringing with them well-wishes and above all hope for recovery. Words from entirely unrelated conversations overlapped to form nonsensical sentences. The place was brimming with life. 

But nothing was around the fifth bed, not even its curtain, which hung limply against the wall in a gathered bundle. Its occupant, seated with his back leaned against the same wall, gazed with disinterested eyes into some unidentifiable void. A hint of brightness returned to his eyes, which were previously entirely bereft of it, when he gasped in surprise, "Monsieur Thiérry! I did not expect you to make another trip so soon." 

Thiérry helped himself to one of the stools stacked in the corner and took a seat. It was nearly four months ago that he had departed Montreuil-sur-Mer before the break of dawn, and two months since Javert's injury. In this time the man in front of him seemed to have aged years. His visit could only be described as "soon" by a man who did not expect him to come at all. 

"Is your wound festering?" he asked. "Let me see it." 

In preparation for his surgery, Javert was clothed only in a loose gown, which he lifted to reveal a mass of bandages stained the brownish-yellow of pus, the sight of which made Thiérry set his jaw. "They will clean it, remove the glass, and cauterize it." The retired captain made the gesture which meant 'at ease'. "Then it will heal properly." 

" _Oui_ , Monsieur. As they had already done twice before." Sad, and above all, resigned. 

Thiérry allowed this line of conversation to drop and instead directed his attention to the tiny bedside table. A small book rested on it and a heap of black beads in turn rested on its leather cover, its cross dangling off the edge, black against the white of the pages. These two objects, along with a drawing displayed on the wall just above them, were the only signs this was a patient who had been here far longer than one night. 

Over on the next bed, the conversation about toppings for a cake ended and the voice of a little girl began to describe a butterfly with orange spots on its wings. He listened for a bit before turning towards the drawing. "That is the lion statue at the front entrance of the _Palais de Justice,_ " he said with a hint of a smile. "It is well done." 

"Pierre... he is... Jean Valjean's nephew... he left it for me." 

"We have met. I came from Arras, he had accompanied Jeanne there." 

Javert dropped his head and nodded. " _Oui_ , I read from the paper that the death sentence was commuted down to perpetual labor… one of his business associates must have hired him a lawyer after the trial… It is the paper he read every weekend but which to me had always been full of senseless drivel… that was the only good reporting it managed in the past two months…" Little in the way of tone or emphasis denoted the end of individual sentences, as he reminisced about a man who was lost and about whom he had no one to speak to. 

But sharply, in resistance against Javert's defeatism and also the heaviness in his own chest, Thiérry interrupted, "Not a lawyer, Javert." He looked into the eyes in which he could only fear and uncertainty and held its gaze. "Chabouillet." 

"Chabouillet…?" Javert repeated in a choked whisper, "The Secretaire of the Préfet de Police...! ... Disagreed with a sentence? …How can that be?" 

"And because you work for the law you must pretend you agree?" Thiérry asked in response, but this only made Javert turn away, pale and horrified, with a look on his face which made clear this was something he never considered possible. "Even when doing so makes you see a patrol as opportunity to suicide?" Thiérry beseeched. It was almost a plea, yet he could not even be certain Javert heard it. He watched as the chief inspector, still turned away, only began to mutter repeatedly between shaking breaths, "it would not have made a difference… still a life sentence..." Without a word, Thiérry rose from his seat and shielded Javert from prying eyes by deploying the thin curtain. By the time he returned to his seat, somehow, he had understood. 

"Look at you, a son of criminals who decided before age ten to choose the law instead," he said with the sternness he had avoided thus far. "In this world maybe 1 out of 100 who had already made several big mistakes could find the strength to dedicate his life to good. Maybe 1 in 1000, or even fewer, would turn himself in to spend the remainder of his life in a _bagne_. But this is the man you have found. The system had worked the way it was meant to \-- the law was not written to handle exceptions. Chabouillet and I have done what we can within our capacities... do you agree?" 

For a man whose gown was quickly becoming damp with tears, the last bit of dignity still left was not to sob. Javert was shuddering violently enough that it was nearly impossible to tell whether he was nodding, and enough to make him cover his wound with his hand. Thiérry, who was not dry-eyed either, reached across to place a firm hand on Javert's shoulder and leaned in, until their graying heads touched. This was the closest thing to an embrace he had ever given to the man who was the closest he had to a son. And though Javert's reaction was to be startled, and to try and turn to face him, he insisted and spoke into the younger man's ear. 

"Look outside the system, Chabouillet had already tried contacting people, but the man he believes to be the only hope needs to be convinced. You should get out of this bed and try, if that is what your conscience demands of you." He glanced at the curtain - it would block sight but not sound, and the information he needed to give should not even be whispered. "Javert," he urged, "I need paper and something to write with." 

"Coat poc-- pocket…" 

Thiérry pulled the pad and pencil out from the coat, visibly darkened by bloodstains and with a sizeable patch of yet a third color, which hung on the nearby rack. 

"It is slipped under the rosary. Write me and let me know if the surgery is successful." And with this, he left. 

It was only long minutes later that Javert wiped off his face with his hands and dried them on his sheets before opening the note: 

Vidocq 

6 Petite-rue-Sainte-Anne. 

Directeur de la Sureté 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: A few words on this Javert. I know that his reaction in this scene may feel at first like it is completely against cannon, so I just want to explain my views. Javert getting stabbed last chapter is almost a direct analog to the pont au change sequence in the brick. The difference is that the brick character's reaction to the failure of the law and the wrongness of his own worldview is extremely cold. Chillingly cold. With that reaction the only end for him is death.
> 
> This Javert is capable of love, he just does not know. And while his first reaction to the events is also to no longer see a reason to live, after failing to die and having some time to think, he is capable of an emotional reaction. And what I wrote here is simply the emotional reaction I saw... feel free to replace it mentally if you prefer a more stoic one. The important point is that you can feel the amount of emotional pain he is suffering. It is very difficult to be "La loi" (the law) and in love with a man with a life sentence. Stick with him for another 2 to 3 chapters. He is about to become a hero.
> 
> Lastly, I am more than happy to discuss the character... just leave a comment.  
> \- fengxiaoj
> 
> -
> 
> Hugo wrote that Valjean was tried in the department of Var, in the extreme south of France, whose capital is ... Toulon. But this did not suit at all to our story. I hope the literary license is justified.  
> About the “exposition”:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pillory  
> About the Health Service of the Army:  
> https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Service_de_sant%C3%A9_des_arm%C3%A9es  
> Grande-Place of Arras:  
> https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand-Place_d%27Arras  
> And about Vidocq:  
> http://fvidocq.free.fr/repereshisto.html


	59. The truth will set you free

 

The only thing worse than to be condemned to the abyss that was the _bagne_ , the sewers of the French justice system, was to suffer this sentence as a man who had already proven to himself that he was perfectly capable of being a contributing member of society. In Jean Valjean's case, society liked what it saw on the surface, the inhuman perfection. At the first crack, when they caught sight of the damage within, it spat him out.

 

Lying chained on his bed of mold-warped wood inside the _bagne_ 's quarantine, Jean Valjean, now known by his new number 9430, saw only a ceiling which seemed to be constantly closing in towards him. So he closed his eyes once more. He thought of the life which he had been told he will never get to live again, in which he was to others a maire, an employer, a businessmen, a believer in God. Perhaps, if he were blessed, also in occasion a philanthropist. But now that life had met its end, and the brand on the back of his right shoulder, of the letters 'TP' (French, perpetual labor), still pained as if scorched by flames. In his life he had accomplished prestige, respect, and wealth. The prestige and respect were meaningful only for the sense of security they provided. His considerable wealth at least went to benefit the lives of two innocent children.

 

Here, locked in a stinking room full of lice and unrepentant gang members, rapists, and murderers, the thought that two children will never again know starvation because of something he - Jean Valjean - had done, was a comfort. With time, he knew he could convince himself that this was exactly the life God had planned for the young son of the pruner from Faverolles. For him to taste freedom after spending the best years of his life in the _bagne_ , to legally earn more than ten-fold, more than one hundred-fold the money not just to purchase the loaf of bread he stole, but the bakery which sold it. Yet still, he was no more successful in getting a loaf of bread to his family. He had simply traded one chain for another.

 

Fear. Shame. It can break the strongest of men.

 

Everyone he cared about he had already seen for the last time, but still this did not prevent him from doing just a little bit better than before. As Thiérry had urged for him to do, with three years of good behavior he could step into the ranks of the _eprouvrés_ , and one day he can even earn the privilege to send and receive letters. To Jeanne he could still be the brother who takes an interest in those little details that make up her daily life: her work, the foods she craved, her relationships with her children. To Marcel, to Dominic, to Marie-Jeanne, to Pierre… he could still be the uncle who offered his best wishes for their upcoming marriage, who congratulated them for the birth of their children, and, almost thirty years late, offered an apology. He could be for Javert the friend he had pretended to be. No more deceit, only honesty. As long as Javert did not mind how bad it would look for a policeman to call a galley slave friend.

 

He only wished that God could have granted him a different path to this understanding, one which did not require him to throw so much of his own life away.

 

\---

 

Once he made his resolve, there was little left to do to pass the remainder of his three weeks of quarantine but to run his fingers over the beads of an imaginary rosary and pray. While almost all others were free to roam the room he was left chained, just another reminder of how close he was to being confined to the room of the unruly when those big doors opened and their sentences truly began.

 

He had not forgotten the horrors which lay in wait, just as he had not forgotten the face of the guard who stood there when the door flew open. An age-defying Dijon, dumb and deaf, but if Valjean trusted his ability to read recognition in a pair of eyes, not fragile of memory.

 

\---

 

Early March. The shores of Toulon were laden with snow which burrowed into the convicts’ rough clogs and lodged between their toes.

 

At low tide four _canots_ (boats) stopped briefly near the entrance to the drydock, only long enough to unhook the cargo they dragged across to sea. Steel chains with links wide as a grown man’s thigh split open the sea as tarred ropes fell on bared backs, a sight familiar to every convict. Four explosive splashes, one after another, and the chains were gone. As the unburdened boats backed out and headed back out of the harbor, their lines of rising and falling oars seeming like giant undulating snakes, four couples of convicts ran down the slipway as if in chase, commanded by the shouting guards. It was their job to locate the sunken chains with their feet and use them to drag the large, two-men-tall wooden pillars the last gruesome steps up to dry land.

 

The seabed of rough gravel was at turns slippery and sharp. Within seconds their legs go numb as they raced against time to climb faster than the rising tide. When their hands could not bear the cold bite of the metal, they tried to hold onto the wood itself or to support it on their backs. How they did it did not matter much to the guards, nor whether they will drown, both members of the garland taken down to the bottom by the chain which joined their ankles. The pillar would still float.

 

This morning, late, already five hours into his shift, the red-faced giant Coupeau shouted to his companion Jean Le Cric, an aging man of average height who struggled to find firm footing as the sea swelled around them, “Hurry the hell up!” But the lagging man remained silent, the handful of wrinkles around his deepening as he fixed his gaze towards the prospect of land. There was not much to be said. And as the water was already past his upper lip, whatever was left would only be swallowed by the sea.

 

Today the sea was merciful and they eventually climbed out of the water. Soaked to the bone and shivering, Jean Valjean walked to one side of the slipway and sat between small pools of dirty water, where he tookhis short break to secure the bloodstained, makeshift bandage – a piece of discarded sail – on his right shoulder. Then, he squeezed his smock as best he could while his teeth kept chattering.

 

For the convicts working in this, the _bagne ’s_ slaughterhouse, the mistral wind blew cold and wild. They could seek no shelter, and not even the time to make the trip back to their salle for a hot lunch. When screws rust and wood decay, a machine is castaway. When ligaments tear and bone breaks, the men set to do a machine’s work can stop breathing. Despite being particularly strong and young, the convicts assigned to this work generally broke their backs or succumbed to pneumonia within a month.

 

And Valjean was no longer young.  He yawned and closed his itchy eyes, always reddened by dirty water.

 

Next thing he knew, he was back in Montreuil-sur-Mer. He was sitting by the path to the woods, leaning on a plum tree laden with ripe fruit, and waiting for one of them to fall into his open palm.

 

To his right, Cosette was savoring a plum while Gavroche hunted another one which was rolling on the grass. To his left, a very dutiful Javert warned him that he should leave some coins to pay for the fruits they were eating. But his eyes were smiling, confident and warm. And opposite him, Jeanne laughed as she handled to his son Pierre a bunch of red fruits.  Finally the juicy, fine plum fell on his palm, and Valjean offered it to Javert.  But instead of taking it, Javert grabbed his hand and pulled Valjean up, close, so close to him. Close enough for Javert's breath to feel like a gush of warmth on his cheek.

 

The guards' whistles woke him at that very moment, and Valjean opened his unbelieving eyes to the sea.

 

Perhaps such dreams were the nourishment to a soul as food was to a body. He lifted his head and watched four _canots_ rowing to the roadstead, and four more departing from there, their new cargo already chained and waiting to be left near the shore. It occurred to him that three years were an eternity.

 

\---

 

Such were six days of each of his weeks; endless days in the water and endless nights trying to sleep in a smock which often was still damp at dawn, only to get soaked again. On the seventh day came Sabbath, when the guards left them be. But he was still chained to another man.

 

Jean Valjean saw those days as opportunities to finally enter the tiny chapel and confess in full. Nothing was too shameful to utter anymore, not by a man who had already been sentenced to life. Coupeau, on the other hand, was one of the many hypocrites whose faith only assaulted them whenever it came time for the enforced prayer, never before, never after. He would never consent to set foot inside any chapel, not just this one.

 

In each of the first weeks Valjean offered his portion of snuff and wine to Coupeau in exchange an agreement of one hour's cooperation. In return, he invariably won promises which every Sunday turned into a guffaw and a bunch of insults. Coupeau had no qualms with turning his back to his own words on the day of God.

 

Instead, the giant man preferred to roam the courtyard and seek the company of his fellow inmates. To him, his new knight was a key to open previously closed doors, a trophy to be paraded about. Few could resist the allure of hearing from a man who had broken parole and became maire. After some weeks in which Coupeau became more and more daring, he had set his sights on the most exclusive social group in the entire courtyard. When with unwilling knight in tow he approached their claimed meeting place, where any trespassers risked serious injury, the men sitting in the circle parted to open up a comfortable seat under the shade, against a rock which was backrest in a chair of gravel, in silent invitation. Then they continued, taking turns to tell their deeds: the houses they robbed, the policemen they mocked, the times they almost managed to fly from the _Bagne_. The most well-acquainted spoke of the ruthless murderers or great con artists, usually dead or escaped, who had come to regard them as their own family. Disgusted and appalled, Valjean witnessed in silence how the young and impressionable lads, many of them barely old enough to have been sentenced as an adult, gradually felt not shame, but pride for the crimes they had committed. They have been admitted as the newest generation of an infamous lineage.

 

"Jean Le Cric," it was said eventually, as was inevitable. "It is your turn."

 

But Valjean's head was turned away from them, towards the wood cross atop the _bagne_ chapel's humble steeple. He recalled how, as a much younger man who had only made the first of his many mistakes, whose unevenly cropped hair was still auburn and not white as the snow, he had knelt in its shadow. A pair of shiny boots had stopped next to him, reflective as a mirror, worn by the young guard he had just begun to care for. He remembered the words he had once prayed, even though he never set foot inside that tiny chapel: 'Father, allow us to survive this _bagne_ untarnished.'

 

A prayer which was now clear to him God had not only heard, but granted: of the two men, one was deemed worthy to be saved.

 

"You wish to hear of my four failed escape attempts, and how I tried to steal the silver with which I started my business," he said. "But I will only speak of what it is like to live a life of crime."

 

"Life, which for others is a walk with much to stop at and to admire, will be for you a run. One crisis follows another. Any place you can call home will be little better than the _cachot_ in which you fear to spend even one night: less dark, perhaps, but equally barren and no more safe. You will be alone. All of the things you dreamed of as a child - a wife, children - will be forever out of your reach. Until you cease to breathe, your love will be indistinguishable from poison, because as a man with a price on your head, you will cause harm by simple association. The stories you will have to tell will never feature anyone you love, care for, or trust. ..."

 

"Some of you look even younger than the age I was when I stole a loaf of bread, 26. Whatever it is that you are now serving time for, it is a mistake that will not ruin your life completely unless you allow it to, by making a second mistake. …"

 

At the end of his words, one of the youngest men wept.

 

In the furor and ridicule which followed, the curious glances which were cast their way from all directions were ignored. However, when the preacher who randomly struck up conversations in other to win converts approached, as one they turned to boo him and throw cigarette butts his way. If there were more methods for them to convey their disdain, they would have used those too. It was odd; the preacher should have known better than to venture where he was not welcome.

 

"9430," the man in the black robe awkwardly dodged a smoking projectile, "You speak of regret and remorse. Believe in the Lord our savior and speak this to Him."  

 

"I already believe." Valjean responded.

 

"Go back to your pulpit and leave us be, we already prayed at mass!"

 

Now faced with the open hostility of the group, Coupeau relented, though not without repeatedly threatening his knight bodily harm for "ruining his reputation." Crude threats which both Valjean and, a bit surprisingly, the preacher, ignored as he led them towards the chapel.

 

"Follow me 9430," the priest said again, as he led them straight to the front door of the chapel which should have closed hours ago, after the morning confessions and mass. With a simple turn of a silver key, it opened to a polished stone tile floor awash with colors from the stained glass windows. And still the man in the black robe did not slow until he walked through a small doorway behind the pulpit, and gestured for Valjean to follow.

 

Without needing to be told, Coupeau naturally stayed back as far as the chain would allow, even when the priest began to close the door. To Valjean's surprise, it closed completely -- a small rectangular hole had been neatly cut into the lower corner. This was a door meant to close between two men joined by their ankles. Sound could still pass, but it gave as much privacy as was possible given the circumstances.

 

The priest retreated behind the hanging curtain. "You may confess," he said simply.

 

Valjean could not understand why the priest had suddenly decided to invite confessions this afternoon, something which he did not believe was ever done. Nor could he understand why the priest chose him. But none of that mattered at the moment, and he spoke. Of the hatred he once felt in the _bagne_ , of his thoughts before he stole the Bishop's silver, of a young chimneysweep, of his guilt of silence during his time as maire.

 

A man who speaks only when there are no ears is not free. He who speaks despite those ears is he who is truly free to speak. It is in this sense that Jean Valjean was finally free.

 

"Is that everything, 9430?"

 

"Yes, Father."

 

"Pray in repentance during your spare moments. I absolve you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit." The voice was lively and sounded younger than the years he had seen on the priest's face. It was beautiful, perhaps belonging to an angel of God.

 

"A gamin inside the city passed me a message for you. It is from someone named 'Inspector'. Do you know who this is?"

 

Valjean's heart skipped a beat. "Yes," he said. "Yes I do."

 

"The message is: 'Do not die. Do not run. Help is coming.'" He was sure he heard a smile in the priest's voice. "If I may comment, 9430, this is quite prudent advice."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mistral (wind)  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mistral_%28wind%29
> 
> Alhoy, Maurice: Les bagnes: histoire, types, moeurs, mystères.  
> The chaplain of a bagne:  
> https://books.google.es/books?id=AbFXAAAAcAAJ&pg=PA285&lpg=PA285&dq=la+messe+au+bagne+de+toulon&source=bl&ots=jXeFPc_qaO&sig=8WSucXh5XVs2PzbGDmMSvENPhq8&hl=es&sa=X&ved=0CE4Q6AEwCmoVChMIgLn39OqNxwIVAdg-Ch23dwLJ#v=onepage&q=la%20messe%20au%20bagne%20de%20toulon&f=false


	60. Chapter 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sept. 1 2015: Minor edit in the wording of how plaster and vinegar are used.

Montreuil-sur-Mer, six weeks earlier.

Javert, against the strict prohibition of his caretakers, began to gingerly test his footing. There was only one law in the land after all, and it did not come from the lips of anal, particular, and difficult to please nurses.

His trusted cane of over twenty years had made it to the infirmary with him, almost a miracle as he had originally bought it for a greater sum than the value of coins stolen out of his coat. It was weighted with lead and meant to be a weapon, and so perhaps a bit more unwieldy than the walking stick the nurses would have provided him with eventually, but it fit his height and it fit his hand. In the long afternoons when patients got out of their beds to stretch and pace, he made his way up and down the length of the room to learn how much weight he could put on his side. The jagged wound, large to begin with, had grown with each failed surgery. Progress was slow. He stopped to rest often and spent much time gazing out the window to watch the snow melt. But with persistence eventually he was able to make short incursions out to the long hallway to scowl at the glaring nurses, going further and further with each succeeding day before he had to turn back.

February was nearly over by the day that Javert reached the end of the hallway. The infirmary had continued to shed staff during his stay and in consequence, with his belongings in one arm and one foot literally out the door, he had not been noticed. A trained spy, he was fully capable of sneaking out the door. But to him, sneaking was something only to be done against criminals, not against women of God, like these nuns. It was a matter of principle. So he turned back to face the hallway and called for Sister Perpétue, and informed the onrushing woman, "Bed number five can be cleaned out for the next man."

"Are you insane?! After so much effort to get your wound to mend you would risk everything by straining yourself? Have Inspector Vasseur bring you work next time he visits and do it in the bed."

"When the jail requires expansion I will nominate you and your establishment, but for now you do not get to chain me to the bed."

The doctor was not happy. But after forcing on him a parcel that smelled like the stinky ointment the nun smeared his dressing in, and warning him to renew his linen daily, he left the nun to dress his wound with a double layer of bandages. Eventually, Javert arrived on time to take up the last seat in the next _malle-poste_ coach bound to Paris.

The seat was vacant for a reason: it was not a spot inside the passenger cabin but up front, next to the driver. Every pothole and mire on the road was a test of balance. Only hours into the two day trip, Javert startled awake to darkness, and to find his upper body sprawled precariously over the protective railing. The driver was shaking him furiously by the lapels of his coat and was demanding that he wear a fastening strap around his waist. The irony that he had escaped the confines of a bed only to be tied to a seat did not escape the inspector, but he complied without a word. For the man who had never been injured before in his life, the weakness he felt in this moment was bewildering. A fact that, fortunately, the driver was unable to read from the scowl on his face.

When he next opened his eyes, it was morning. The cart had stopped at a dirty, noisy _Poste_ station, too crowded at this early morning hour for them to be far from the gates of Paris. Loudly the driver told the three disheveled heads fleeing out of the cart that the stop would only last ten minutes, at which point the cart will depart with or without them. Javert felt his side and, alarmed, climbed down the coachman’s seat with caution. He walked behind the building for privacy, unbuttoning his coat all the while. Eventually he untucked his stained shirt and was able to see the extent to which he had bled through even the second layer of his bandages. Holding the hem of his shirt between his teeth, he began to search in vain for the knot and decided that in the absence of a knife he might try to rip the fabric. But before he could do anymore the driver's call was heard, and he was left with no better option than to press his handkerchief over the stain as a makeshift third layer of bandage before he hastily redressed and made his way back, affirming under his breath his disapproval of cauterizing irons.

By midmorning he set foot gingerly on the familiar black mud of the city, and set out down the Quai des Orfèvres past the Préfecture of Police, guided only by a few words scribbled onto a small scrap of paper. The address Thiérry had given to him belonged to a residential building which was chipped, twisted and dirty as practically any other in the Cité. Its entrance bore no inscription beyond the number '6' which could be easily missed not only by eyes unadapted to vision in a sharp, seemingly impregnable shadow, but also minds distracted by the faint spots of color executing a gentle yet unpredictable dance across the weathered facade.

It was a sight which captivated even an infamously ascetic man like Inspector Javert, and he watched the brick wall before him for a moment before glancing beyond the rooftop with a smile tugging on the corners of his lips. The shadow was cast by the _Palais_ _de Justice_ and the colors were spots of sunlight filtered by the clouds then painted by the stained glass windows of the Sainte-Chapelle. He entered the building.

Immediately behind the door sat a porter behind a small counter, but the sour-faced man only shot Javert an annoyed look before turning away to flip through a notepad. No greeting, no question of who this never-seen-before man was here to visit. Beyond the counter stretched a corridor which was not the lifeless and barren expanse necessary to connect street to room found in every building of this kind. A row of stools lined one wall, and the four men sat waiting turned their haggard, unusually hairless heads towards him. Watching his every movement. Javert narrowed his eyes and glanced from them to the disinterested porter huffing on a pipe, to the row of closed doors. Then he nodded to himself: there was no mistake that this was the right place. Everything fit.

Next to him were four men likely fresh out of a _bagne_ , just sitting there inside a city which banned their entry. An impetuous need, as intrinsic and as difficult to ignore as hunger gripped him: familiar words demanding for a show of passports lodged itself in his throat and nauseated him, choking him despite their lack of weight and dimension. His badge dug into his fingertips before he was aware that he had reached for it. Thoughts flooded his mind without any effort: arrest them, then go back to Montreuil and admit to the new maire he had barely met that he was as despicable as all those people who kicked and screamed in the police station, demanding that laws be bent for their loved ones to be spared. And that only in the last moment was he able to do to himself what he did to them all: put an end to the traitorous thoughts. But if this was his choice Jean Valjean's life would be over.

He shook as he continued forward, all almost two meters of him, willing himself to ignore the men he kept out of his sight until eventually he found the door which made the make-believe porter tense. He gave the door two heavy raps with his cane then turned to the porter to keep man at bay with a cold stare, his frown challenging the slightest protest. Quickly the door opened part way to reveal a middle-aged man who was wide in both gut and hair, the latter being a carefully disordered mass of thick curls. His colorful, fleshy cheeks contrasted sharply with his piercing eyes, endowed with tremendous mobility and yet impassive. They gave him an aura of unquestionable authority.

"Monsieur Vidocq I am Javert, Chief Inspector of Montreuil-sur-Mer."

Vidocq's gaze became hard, ruthless. “Some weeks ago that _Préfet_ of yours already sent his _Secrétaire_ after me. I did not go with him and I most certainly will not go voluntarily with a Chief Inspector from some town. Save us both time." Before Javert could react, the door had been shut rather heavily in his face. He knocked again.

This time the door was thrown open. "Show your warrant!" demanded Vidocq.

 

"There is none. I am not here to arrest you."

 

"Then if you are not here to work for me, leave," he retorted coldly. "Go spend this time on your cases and maybe next time you won't need help from me." Turning his head towards the porter as if Javert did not exist, he pointed unmistakably towards the exit before slamming the door shut once more. The lock could be heard as it was engaged. Javert did not wait to be shown the way out.

Night had fallen by the time the director of the _Sûreté_ finally emerged from his secretive office. By his count it had not been a productive day, most of it having been spent filing nonsensical documents to departments with dubious jurisdiction over him. The air was sparsely filled with fluttering snowflakes, a few of which landed on Vidocq's upturned coat collar and then immediately melted into beads. His trusted lookout had predicted this to be the last snow of the winter.

He had glanced both ways and was about to turn towards home when an oddness registered in his mind, prompting him to look again. Down where the street began, lanterns carried by passing drivers and riders traveling down the Quai des Orfèvres cast the row of small stone pillars, meant to block traffic from entering the small street, into sharp relief. Usually they were just there, immutable and ignorable, but now one of them was large as a man. In fact someone was sitting on it, and Vidocq knew instinctively it was not just any man, but the policeman he had ejected from the building hours ago. A soft whistle escaped his lips -- he had always been one to appreciate tenacity, and to indulge this policeman suddenly became a far more exciting prospect than to go home.

As Vidocq unhurriedly made his way over, he saw the way the man met his eye and rose to his impressive full height, as if tired of being spied on. They met each other halfway, where they faced each other and took a moment to study each other. The long time resident on both the police's most wanted list and expert consultant list took note of the unkempt mustache and full but uneven beard, bushy and wild along his jaws, shorter on the chin. Clearly hussar-style side whiskers left without a proper shave for some time, and even hair long enough for a properly large queue. A warped top hat completed the impression of a man in disarray which even the crisp movements and rigid stance could not counteract. But what most flattered the monstrous vanity of the head of the _Sûreté_ was the way the taller man waited for him to speak despite being made self-conscious by his scrutiny. "Are you stubborn or desperate?" he asked with an amused smile.

"Desperate," came the unexpectedly candid response.

Vidocq hummed with good humor and tilted his head back towards his office. "Then come in," he said. True to his word he unlocked that same office door he had slammed twice only hours ago to reveal a room which was an area of calculated chaos. The greenish paper with bronze colored motifs covering the walls, peeling here and there, could hardly be seen behind the many shelves. Countless dossiers, books and sundry junk were piled all over. The dusty green calico curtains were pushed aside, stuck against a telescope pointing to the sky. He took a seat behind his desk and chuckled at the way his guest tried - and repeatedly failed - not to stare at his bizarre belongings. Then his hand distractedly covered his mouth when the policeman began to scowl at the huge worn shelf in the corner, in apparent disbelief. Vidocq made a mental note to ask later what gave away his secret room so quickly. But for now he simply harrumphed and asked, "What is your name again?"

"Javert."

Vidocq ran a finger along the cleft of his chin and smiled. "Well, Javert, what did your boss threaten to do to you if you go back alone that made you so desperate? Perhaps something could be worked out."

"I was not sent by the police."

"Only a few men, countable on my fingers, know my name and they all work in the _Palais_."

"I come to seek employment for a convict. Monsieur le _Secrétaire_ Chabouillet, my sponsor, gave me your address and I took sick leave -- _non_ , I took leave from my sick leave -- to come here. I am not under orders by anyone who works in the _Palais_ _de Justice_. I am not under orders by anyone at all."

Vidocq studied Javert with renewed interest. His skin was dark, in stark contrast with excessively clear eyes. They shone with the glimmer of fever, but maintained a steady gaze. Anything other than a straight nose was hidden behind his shaggy black beard peppered with gray. A dark stain that had not been there a few minutes earlier was growing on a patch of cloth cleverly stitched into his coat. Right where his gloved hand obstinately returned now and then to hold his side. Vidocq narrowed his eyes looking for answers. "Where is this man you want me to employ? Have him come find me himself."

"He is unable."

"What he lost his good leg? I do not employ cripples. If he can't even manage to get himself here how can he be useful to me?"

"He is still inside Toulon."

"And the job is here in Paris. Tell him to get on a diligence and find me. Just because of your stubbornness I will meet with him."

" _Non_ , Monsieur. Not Toulon the city, but the _Bagne_. He is inside the _bagne_."

Vidocq lifted an eyebrow incredulously at Javert and then burst out laughing, rudely. However, Javert remained undeterred and closed his mouth only long enough for the burst of laughter to pass. "Number 9430, Jean Valjean. Sentenced to _travaux forcés à perpétuité_ (hard labour for life).”

The director of the _Sûreté_ 's smile turned bitter and then resigned. "You must not think much of the _Sûreté_ , you and all your ilk." He could not say he was surprised to know that a policeman would have such an opinion of his Service. However, it bothered him. “More convicts come to my door than I have money to pay. Many beg to work for nothing more than a promise of protection. I have never, never, needed to go get a man. They come to me.”

For a moment Javert stood with parted lips, dumbfounded. When he stepped up to the desk and set a heavy hand onto it, Vidocq saw the glistening cold sweat on the tip of his nose. "But, is it not your men who makes arrested criminals miraculously disappear while under police escort, before we even manage to reach the station? I know it happens, it had happened to me and though I do not know how you manage it, I know it can be done."

"Sure. If it was done so cleanly it was the _Sûreté_. But do you escort your arrests with the backing of the French navy? Five hundred guards?"

" _Non_. But escapes do happen so it is possible." Words began to tumble out of Javert's mouth, as if he knew that the only way to hold onto hope was not to stop speaking. "This man, he will be worth your effort. He held the title of maire for three years while being a parole-breaker, and I was his chief inspector. He made a fool of me. He is a man who had achieved enough while in hiding to impress the King that he received clemency for his original sentence to the guillotine. Is he not the kind of person you want working on your cases?"

Raising his hand, Vidocq gestured him to silence. "You are horribly bad at begging," he commented suggestively.

" _Oui_. As prison guard and as policeman, begging was never part of my job description."

Vidocq leaned back in his seat. Something in the issue deeply intrigued him. Moreover, memories that he still could not sort into order, but that left a strong impression on him many years ago, had begun to pester his mind.

"Fine. I have enough curiosity to have my agent in Toulon conduct an interview. Only if he makes the strongest recommendation, we talk again in maybe a month."

Javert raised his eyebrows, gray eyes widening. "There is a _Sûreté_ agent in Toulon? Was he already there in 1800, when I worked there?"

"Ah," Vidocq exclaimed, and after a moment he smiled slyly. "No, that time I was still in Toulon and you were the one they called _Le_ _Gitan_ (The Gypsy). You left an impression and was easy to recognize. But I understand now the part that I had been missing this entire conversation. Rumors were that you protected a convict and was the reason so many guards left in the year 1800. I always thought this was just a stupid rumor especially since the convict supposedly rescued, Le Cric, never spoke of the matter." He looked for, and found, the vulnerability and softening of expression of someone reminiscing on a memory. "This Jean Valjean, he is Le Cric, isn't he?"

" _Oui_."

He waved a hand dismissively at the shock on Javert's face. "Yes, yes, hold your admiration for my formidable memory. I remember everyone I've ever met, this is a useful skill for detective work, much more so than begging. Though at that time there was not yet a _Sûreté_ , the man who is my agent was indeed already a guard there. You know him: He is on every plate and he is good with meat."

He waited for an attempt at his little riddle until he came to the decision that Javert's face had become more than alarmingly ashen. "Dijon. He knows how to do it. Leave me your address and go back to sick leave… looks like you need it."

 

\---

 

Immediately after stepping out of Vidocq's office Javert took his hand away from where it had been, applying pressure to the wound, to check it. His glove was stained with blood. This was no longer a situation to be scowled at and ignored as an inconvenience, but a full-blown emergency. There were only two options: to go to the Hôtel-Dieu, the nearest hospital, prepared to defend his dignity against its army of pompous doctors armed with leeches, or the cheaper option, to rent a room in a clean, quiet inn and change his bandages then get a good night's sleep.

It was a decision that before this would have been trivial, and that now weighed heavily on his mind because now someone else depended on his well-being, and not in the way everyone depended on the police for order and safety. Leaning heavily on his cane he made his way off the Île de la Cité, in the direction of the Pont Saint-Michel instead of the Pont au Change, his increasingly confused mind fixed on reaching the Place Saint-André. Instead, he stopped dead in front of a building in which he had not set foot since he was little more than twenty years old. Even so, Javert still remembered a warm room in its third floor.

“This is Javert,” he informed the startled voice that answered his knocking.

As Jeanne de Val opened the door she was unable to speak. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and when she opened them, she wore a tiny smile on her lips. But then she looked at Javert intently and for the first time noticed his stained coat and his ashen face. "You have recovered? Oh! You are bleeding!"

Without even waiting for his response she ushered him in the door and turned to grab the most comfortable of her dining chairs and set it down next to him. She turned back to find that Javert had wandered over to her stove and was slumped against it. "It is not on!" she said, bending down to check his temperature. "Come, come to the chair so I can turn on the stove without burning you. You must help me, I am not strong enough to carry you."

Javert tried to get himself back onto his feet using his cane, but only succeeded when he gave up and leaned against the wall instead for support. As they slowly shuffled towards the waiting chair, he explained to her with the unfocused look of a sleepwalking man, "There are clean bandages and ointment in my bag, and I need a place to sleep before the next _malle-poste_. You may take coins out of my pocket for expenses…" He was too at risk of falling out of the chair for her to dispute his words, and she would feel much better if he had a place to lie down.

After guiding him into the chair, she quickly removed her bonnet and coat from the table and dragged the furniture up against the chair, to serve as a second backrest. Then she adjusted him so he was well supported, without putting more strain on the inspector's bleeding side. While she took care of lighting the stove and loading it up with as much coal as good sense would allow, her eyes were repeatedly drawn to the growing dark stain on Javert's coat since the smell of blood reached her a while ago.

"I will send to the barracks for Pierre to stop by after his shift, but until then we must fend for ourselves," she explained softly, when she returned to his side. She only received a muted response, though she took much solace in the fact that, as if lulled by the warmth which quickly filled the room, Javert had fallen asleep. Even her hands unbuttoning his clothing did not wake him.

By the time he next opened his eyes, Jeanne, a few strands of gray hair falling over her face, was laboriously dragging a few piled mattresses next to his chair. She had bandaged his torso with a scrap of sheet and had wrapped him with a blanket. The smell of Sister Perpétue's ointment filled the room.

Jeanne pushed a cup of something hot towards the Inspector and encouraged him to drink. No questions nor demands worried her face.

"... I will help you onto the mattress, it will be much more comfortable," she murmured as she took the emptied cup. Javert nodded, his eyes shut.

" _Merci_ … I will move everything back before I leave..." he muttered, then drifted into an uneasy doze.

The night was long for both of them. Javert woke up more than once, to the sensation of Jeanne's wrinkled hand on his forehead, to the muffled sound of Jeanne's shears cutting through cloth to make more strips, and to her offers of more broth. Invariably he watched her intriguing and mysterious actions, until it became too much of a struggle to keep his heavy eyelids open. "Why?" he asked when his curiosity got the better of him.

To which she only smiled and said, " _Dors_ (Sleep), Javert."

It was morning - light flooded the small room through the two windows - when he woke to pain. Pierre was prodding the edges of his wound with a metal instrument and looked at him grimly. "Good morning, uncle. Needless to say, your wound has reopened. I am removing the dead flesh and old scabs which will only get in the way of healing.” Javert acknowledged his words with a humph.

"How did the doctor allow you to leave in this state?" Pierre asked, his accusatory tone making it clear that he did not approve.

"At my command." Javert deadpanned.

"Ah!" Pierre chuckled. "Some officers in the army I have attended to are the same way." As he met Javert's eyes his smile evaporated. "Those were not my favorite," he concluded, in a matching deadpan. Javert frowned.

Working quickly and efficiently the young army surgeon wrapped up his scalpel and rummaged inside his bag, pulling out a small package and a bottle. "Your wound is large and jagged, and had opened many times. I am going to treat the way we treat large lacerations in the army: hold it closed with this plaster" - he held up first the package, then the bottle - "vinegar will prevent it from becoming inflamed." After this respectful explanation he focused on his task, matching the torn flesh as well as he can then suturing it closed with thin strings of the gray plaster. When he was satisfied he applied some of the dressings Javert brought with him then wrapped it securely with fresh linen soaked in the vinegar.

Javert waited until Pierre began picking up his instruments to let out a held breath as he wiped the large beads of sweat off his face.

Pierre squeezed his shoulder. "This will do, if you do not move. But it will take time to properly heal. Perhaps months.” The surgeon raised a hand as Javert made to protest. "I know. You're too busy to be in bed for a month. I will show you how to use the plasters, and you will continue putting on the nun's camphorated ointments. But you need to add vinegar and renew your linens daily."

" _Merci_ , Pierre." Javert said, without any hint of sarcasm. "If it is good enough for the King's army, it is good enough for me." Then he scowled at the stubborn stinging sensation in his side and decided his best course of action was to sleep it away.

Jeanne helped clean up the bloodied clothes as Pierre packed everything back into his bag, then led him over to the table where a steaming cup of coffee was already waiting. There, the young army doctor used his authority to write out an official note of treatment meant for the Acting Mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer. After silently watching him sign and then seal it, she then handed him the letter she had had received a few days ago, of which she could only read her own name.

"This is from Monsieur Thiérry, Maman. Monsieur Chabouillet found the woman Fantine." The young man read with worried expression, but spoke with a calmness. He paused and held her hand firmly. "She is dead."

 

\---

 

To pass the time during his enforced rest, Javert watched his host and often found her doing even more incomprehensible things, such as knitting tiny socks or cooking large quantities of applesauce. Once he watched wide-eyed as she attempted to straighten the brim of his hat using cardboard, glue and the weight of her irons.

After many mornings of having an extra blanket tucked over him before she left for work, and an equal number of evenings watching her fold up the same blanket after starting the stove, one evening, while she sliced up some bread he curtly asked: "Why do you care for me?"

She sat beside him before answering. "Because sometimes life is too much for one person to handle alone. That is what family is for."

"Family?"

"Yes, like my children and my grandchildren. Like Jean. And by extension, you."

Javert remained silent, watching her expression. "But they all left. And as soon as Pierre allows me, I will also," he said solemnly.

"That is as it should be. They left. Some of them come to visit from time to time." Jeanne paused, searching for words. "But somehow, they stay with me. And it will always be so."

For a long time Javert faced her, surprised by her faithfulness and belief in a concept he did not understand. But eventually he looked away, into the void. "Why did my _mère_ (mother) not behave like you?" he asked.

Jeanne laid a hand over his chest. "She did not know what she had." Deep horizontal creases formed above her brow. She tried to find more words but in the end only gave him a kind smile. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" she asked, self-consciously.

"I expected it to. But _non_ , especially after I remembered that I had behaved similarly once, back when I was 19." He paused, deep in thought. "For Valjean."

 

-

 

He had stayed three whole weeks before Pierre grudgingly authorized him to leave. Jeanne had readied for him hot water to wash and his uniform. Before pulling the curtain which ensured a precarious privacy, she pushed into his hands a old, humble razor with wooden handle. "It was Jean's." she said by way of explanation “I kept it thinking he will one day return. I do not know how you feel about him now, but if you wish to have it, you can take it with you.”

Javert gazed at it, resting in his palm, before dropping it into his pocket. " _Merci_ ," he said. "I have a use for it."

 

\---

 

He traveled back to Montreuil-sur-Mer not forgetting the fact that Vidocq had predicted a wait of one month, and that a letter could arrive any day. Then it may be a trip back to Paris for another meeting, or a trip southbound in the direction of Toulon to meet with a different member of the _Sûreté_ ; either way, he needed to be ready to leave for an unpredictable length of time. In this regard everything worked in his favor to make this possible, from his well-run and autonomous department, to Pierre's note, to the fact that he had unclaimed vacation days and unbelievably underused his sick day allowance. His request to visit a friend during his recovery was granted without question.

These last weeks of March, when the first flowers are budding, were a joyous time at the orphanage. For it was during this time that the town's stern Chief Inspector was seen to visit regularly, and each time he would spend an hour at a time slowly pacing across the fenced-off yard, his trailing cane chased by the boy Gavroche with outstretched, stubby fingers, his infectious and enthusiastic shouts of " _saucisse_ (sausage)!" ringing across the yard.

In fact, he spent so much of his time there that when the letter came, it quickly found its way from the police station, where it was originally delivered, to the orphanage.

"Monsieur l’Inspecteur. A letter for you."

Javert thanked her and read it quickly, while Gavroche tugged at the leg of his pants trying to mimic her words. "Mahhh!" he said, leaving fingerprints all over his boots. "Mahhhhh!" The rest of the syllables, if it were that at all, came out as unintelligible gibberish.

After tucking the letter into his chest pocket, Javert tilted his head uncomfortably low to meet Gavroche's eyes as he pulled his cane out of the boy's hands. "I must go," he said. "My presence is required in Toulon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malle-poste:
> 
> https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malle-poste
> 
> Surgical techniques in military hospitals (1792-1829):
> 
> Clinique chirurgicale, exercée particulièrement dans les camps et les hôpitaux militaires, depuis 1792 jusqu'en 1829 [-1836]. Par le baron D.-J. Larrey
> 
> http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k5613911j.r=Clinique+chirurgicale%2C+exerc%C3%A9e+particuli%C3%A8rement+dans+les+camps+et+les+h%C3%B4pitaux+militaires.langES
> 
> Vol 2, pag 350
> 
> Vol 1, pag 68
> 
> Pharmacopoeia :
> 
> Manuel complet théorique et pratique de pharmacie populaire par M. Julia de Fontenelle.
> 
> http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k61323109.r=.langES
> 
> Vol 1. pag 212


	61. Chapter 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CORRECTION: (September 15 2015): Javert also purchased a cap in set from pawnbroker.

Though Javert was able to call on his former _Capitane_ Thiérry, and through him the current _Capitane_ of the _Chaîne_ to deliver a message into the _Bagne_ , Jean Valjean had no means to respond. Kind and non-judgmental as the priest was, the man could offer nothing more than to repeat the same nine word message to him again: "Do not run. Do not die. Help is coming." Soon, irritated by the wait, his knight Coupeau began to pound on the door of the confessional.

He returned to his daily routine not knowing who would hit him, not knowing who would help him, and not knowing how long the wait would be.

Little did he know that days before this the deaf old guard known as Dijon had already been secretly plotting a personal crusade against him, a plan which quickly escalated into action. Watching his every move as a hawk eyes a mouse scurrying beneath it in an open field, the ornery guard suddenly found everything he did - and for that matter, didn't do - to be unacceptable. As always, speculation was rife. Few convicts remained from the early years of Le Cric's first stint in the _Bagne_ , but eventually they spoke up. Sagely, they proclaimed that the senile guard had finally remembered Le Cric was the one who caused not only him, but also many of his guard friends to face hard disciplinary actions over twenty years ago. Now that he was about to retire, nothing would keep Dijon from exacting revenge.

For a couple of weeks the harassment continued, where not a day passed without Dijon making Le Cric feel the weight of his cudgel on the ribs, screaming the worst insults for everyone to hear. By this point everyone had learned to avert their eyes, and Coupeau's bitterness to being chained to Le Cric threatened to become violent. When the day finally came that Dijon accused Le Cric of disrespect, no one cared to ask why. When Dijon had Le Cric removed from his knight and taken into the _cachot_ for solitary confinement, Coupeau almost failed to hide his glee. Yet Valjean, piecing together the information he had, finally understood that here in the _Bagne_ , the only way to give help was to first give a beating. And he waited calmly in the _cachot_ until, as he had hoped, Dijon came to visit.

"Well, Le Cric, I have a surprise offer for you," - as if uncomfortable with speaking in a whisper, Dijon cleared his throat - "do you want to work for the _Sûreté_ instead of ending your life in this shithole?"

Unable to decide how close he needed to lean into Dijon's ear for his own whisper to be heard, in the end he stayed put. "Are you the help that… that was supposed to come?" he asked, watching Dijon's face in the lamplight. When the guard's effortless comprehension made it clear he was not at all deaf, Valjean found out that nothing in the _Bagne_ could manage to surprise him anymore.

"Considering that you are one consent away from being helped to escape, probably? My boss did mention that your hero _Le Gitan_ was the one who made the request." A brief, dangerous fire shone in Le Cric's somber eyes to the mention of Javert's nickname. He lowered his gaze.

"Do you pledge to work for the _Sûreté_ , yes or no?" Dijon pressed, his usual orneriness surfacing. " _Sûreté_ , the famed underground police, in case you spent all your time outside the _Bagne_ in a cave." Interpreting Le Cric's continued silence as a sign of rebellious thoughts, the guard tapped Valjean on the shoulder with his cudgel as a warning. "I know you managed to hide from the police for eight years, but trust me there is no hiding from both the police and the _Sûreté_ at the same time. If you lie just to be released you will be back, and I will be angry. Because you would have made me look like an idiot giving you a good recommendation."

"What will I do in the _Sûreté_? Help arrest people?"

"Since that is our function, yes."

"Is there anything else I can do, like maybe paperwork, that would allow me to avoid arresting people?" Valjean paused, too aware that with every word he risked to ruin everything. "Before I turned myself in to serve this life sentence, I made a promise to be honest," he explained, straightening his back. For a moment it seemed that it was not a dirty convict who was chained to the bed in the _cachot_ , but a learned man, a respectable _maire_ of a town. "And if you are to employ me, you need to know that I believe all the _bagne_ should be emptied. It is a belief that had been beaten into me and it will never change. But if helping to send more men here is the only way for me to earn my freedom, I will do it dutifully as a job, because there are people outside waiting for me."

Dijon scratched behind his ear with his cudgel as he considered Le Cric. "I will take that as a yes," he said. "In a few days you will be back out. Look around you and decide for yourself whether everything would be better if none of the convicts here were arrested. If you think that -- and I will repay your honesty with honesty -- then you are a maniac and I would not want to help you escape."

"No," Valjean replied. "I don't need to look. There are men here who are a danger to society. But not even beasts deserve to live in a _bagne_."

"Then your problem is not with making arrests. You want prison reform, and you know one of the very few men who could do something about it. Javert put nine guards in red smocks. That is the only way for things to change, and maybe, just maybe, one day the regulations themselves could be made more humane. You will do nothing by rotting in here."

Pleased with himself for the expression he managed to put on the famously stoic face of Le Cric, the guard pivoted in the tight space to face the door. But with his hand on the handle, he stopped short. "One last thing. Do you know how to swim? Make the answer yes as soon as possible."

\---

By the time Vidocq's letter found its way to the orphanage and into Javert's hands, all this was weeks-old, of course, even though he knew nothing of it. The letter only said, "After pick-up, deliver snuff to Aix for inspection. Negotiate in person at port of Toulon."

Ignoring Gavroche's cries of dismay, Javert left the orphanage ahead of the clock tower's chime and went back to his room. The past two months without salary had put a serious dent in his savings. Anticipating the need for extensive travel, he had already sorted out items of sellable value; a few law books which he never saw the need to "correct", and thus had clean pages; the old but still serviceable pair of shoes which he wore only when his boots required repair. Briefly he had considered the possibility of saving them for Valjean, but quickly decided that while excess length in a shoe was manageable, narrowness was not. So now he took these and a few small items to the local pawn shop for a few extra coins to supplement what was in the little tea tin bank bearing his name. Meant to be savings for a ring and a few pieces of modest furniture, it had been untouched for so many years that its lid had rusted shut.

But it certainly still won't be enough. Javert made his way briskly to Vasseur's flat and tapped the door with his cane. When his subordinate welcomed him in shirtsleeves, still chewing enthusiastically on a snack, he shook his head to the invitation to enter and snapped bluntly:

 “I am short of money.”

 Vasseur almost choked on his mouthful. He glanced over his shoulder then half-shut the door. “How much and what for?”

 “I can't tell you what for, only that I am leaving town within the hour. And... as much as you feel comfortable loaning to me.”

 “... when do you plan to be back?"

 Javert leaned on his cane with both hands, and looked straight into Vasseurs' eyes. “I don't know.”

The plump man nodded with equal solemnity. “I only have a little over 300 _francs_ to spare. I will go get it.”

\---

Six days later a diligence deposited Javert, along with his saddlebags stuffed with bandages, at the port of Toulon. He had made the cross-country journey, and the gate of the _Bagne_ was minutes away. But his plight had just begun.

No one had met him at the _Poste_ station as he had expected, perhaps too naively. Left with little recourse, he found shelter in a cheap room he shared with five workers of the _Arsenal_ (dockyard), then spent his days patrolling Toulon's very square and very clean streets, trying to make his presence known. Retired men of the military were a common sight in the city as they came to apply for position as guard. Aware that his coat and his hat did not help distinguish him from those jobseekers, he tried his best to flaunt the empty saddlebag he kept on his shoulder to at least make clear that he was one who arrived by land. Little had changed from the city in his memory, and while walking past a street of bars he came across the clothier at which he had purchased his coat. Glancing down at the large patch on his coat, he gave the damaged area a gentle tug and decided that coats by this maker were well worth the prices displayed through the window. Only that it was unaffordable at the moment.

Muttering something about injuries being a waste of money, he proceeded several more blocks to a far less glamorous section of the city and entered a pawn shop.

"My friend needs a set of clothes," he said matter-of-factly to the squirrely man behind the counter as he indicated a horizontal line with one hand, approximately level with his chin. "He is this tall."

"Then your friend is easier to fit than you!" the pawnbroker declared, and within seconds had thrown two shirts onto the counter. It would appear that business had been slow, or many people had gone broke.

Javert held each one up and gave them a glance. " _Non_ , these would not work... my friend's shoulders are very wide." A scowl starting to form on his face, he gestured a measurement with his hands that was a little wider than his own shoulders.

The pawnbroker shrugged and traded the two shirts for a third. "Everything else wide enough is even longer. If you want it, I have also the trousers, shoes, cap and jacket straight off the same man."

Javert inspected the stiff, slightly deformed leather shoes and the garments the shopkeeper brought. They were rough and worn, in fact they could have belonged to any peasant from the region. He purchased the full set then kept walking.

When, days later, a tiny _gamin_ ran up to him right outside his room and put a crumpled letter into his hand, he knew better than to ask any questions.

"Water delivery to be made at La Mître. Advance notice will be delivered to this address on afternoon ahead of dusk delivery. No land route because twenty years ago a gypsy stopped a fighting ring." He read the scribbled words once, twice, then driven by a sense of dread he felt in the pit of his stomach, went to the closest waterfront. There, he dipped a hand into the seawater and blanched as his fear was confirmed: though it was already late April, the water was still cold. To him intolerably so, and he could not imagine someone swimming five kilometers in this water from the _Bagne_ out and around La Tour royale, the heavily militarized guard tower at the mouth of Toulon Bay.

On his way back to his room he stopped by the same pawn shop to purchase a few rags and worn blankets with what coins he felt could be spared. Then, clutching his new acquisitions to his chest he raised his eyes to heaven. The first stars rising in their immutable paths pierced through wispy, drifting clouds to glare down at him coldly, reminding him exactly how far he stood now from everything he had known and how little control he had over the situation. A list of nearby inns, a list of horse rentals, and a list of diligence departures to Aix were already in his pocket. Aside from finding a boat, there was little left to do but to believe that justice will prevail.

 


	62. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover art for this fic, painted by fengxiaoj.
> 
> cover art: ** open in new tab for larger **

Groucha dedicates this chapter to esteven, friend and reader.

As a rough voice boomed, a hundred pairs of oars parted the sea in unison and a line of boats set out on their laborious journey back to the _Bagne_ of Toulon.

The hungry, exhausted men clung unrelentingly to the water-slickened sides not to fall overboard. Even the most hardened among them feared that a sudden surge of waves could throw them into the silent, cold bosom of the sea. But they were the lucky ones; for them, yet another grueling work day was over. Not one of them spared a parting glance over their shoulder to the damaged ship behind them, left anchored far in the outer harbor because it still sat too deep in the water to be taken any closer.

For a moment, that colossal man-of-war remained solemn and quiet, as if in salute to the setting sun, a blinding sphere staining the ink colored sea. Then, sudden as a cannon the clang of chains sounded anew as the remaining galley slaves climbed the ladders then took on the last remaining tasks of their shift: to complete the waterproofing of new repairs and to clean up the ship before leaving it for the night.

Only the prisoners discouraged from fleeing by the iron _boulet_ chained to their ankles had been left aboard. Among them was Jean Valjean.

The hardened convict known as Le Cric, freshly released from yet another stay in the _cachot_ , stood hunched over the calf-deep seawater in a corner on the flooded lowermost deck. Light entered through the partially repaired hole next to him, brushing across his back like a warm, dusty rain. A strange blessing, nonetheless one which helped to slay the fear and anxiety in his pounding heart. Too much had been done in preparation for what will soon come that failure was not an option. Neither was hesitation, nor rashness.

His lips moved almost imperceptibly whispering one line over and over, “ _Que ta volonté soit faite_ (Thy will be done)”, as he smoothed hot tarred oakum into the gaps between newly assembled planks with a pair of tongs. Now and then, he snuck in a swipe or two of his file at the already sizeable dent already in the chain of the _boulet_ which Dijon had secured to his ankle this very morning.

The few galley-slaves who were nearby avoided him. They recognized all too well the aftermath of a brutal beating -- the unsteady legs, the vacant gaze through the walls, the inability to work with usual efficiency. If Dijon managed to break even Le Cric, their first and only concern was not to make themselves the next target. They were unwitting participants in the elaborate plot which had been unfolding before their eyes, now on course for completion. Within arm's reach of them, a man sentenced to life in the galleys painstakingly chiseled his way to freedom with a tiny file hidden in his sleeve, unnoticed.

Eventually the moment came when the unyielding pressure of metal pushing back against the teeth of his file simply vanished, and Valjean, even though he was the one who caused this to happen, nevertheless jolted in surprise. Tensing his arm to stop from cutting into his ankle, he closed his eyes to the soft thud of a fallen chain clattering to the deck, muffled to near silence by the water and above all the broken water pump, only audible to him alone. Gingerly he shifted his leg -- it was weightless. He gave Dijon the signal.

As a gush of fresh air burst through the hole in the hull, Valjean rose to meet it with outstretched arms, hugging the breeze like in a far away life he would have embraced a tree trunk before climbing. Faces turned to him in alarm: In the twilight, Valjean was no more than a withered old man who walked dragging his feet to the opening in the ship, waiting for the sea to rise and take him away while a prayer fell from his lips.

When Dijon smashed his cudgel into a piece of wood and screamed for him to stop, Valjean kicked his _boulet_ overboard and jumped.

The guard barked powerless insults and curses, spluttering with rage while the convicts crowded to the hole in morbid curiosity... but there was no sign of man nor _boulet_ , only an ominously floating green cap, the digits "9430" embossed into its tin plate catching the sun's dying light: Jean Le Cric had been swallowed by the sea.

 --

Hoof beats spilled across the gravelly beach of La Mître with the violence of a tempest then skid, screeched, stumbled to a stop. Javert caught his slipping saddlebag, bulging around the buckles and with yet even more rolls of blankets and rags strapped across its flaps, and tossed it into the waiting boat only to free up his hand so he could adjust his crooked top hat, equally slipping.

His other hand - in fact his entire arm - was taken up by an oil lamp and a very straight tree branch, long as a flag pole and quite unwieldy. He had ridden the entire way with it awkwardly couched against his bent elbow, appearing to all who caught sight of him as a lancer, that now dying breed, unfearful to charge into gunfire and spear down a foe.

If only what was secured on its tip was tapered metal, and not a large plump mass of waxed cloth. This was actually a torch, absolutely crucial to the entire operation and his solution to the formidable problem of how to allow himself to be found in the middle of the open sea. Only after much testing had he realized that the waxed cloth the totalitarian Sister Perpetue insisted he use to keep his bandages dry burned a bright, sustained flame. So pleased was he to learn that what was needed was something he already had, and not something else he needed to come up with coin to purchase, that after he finished making the torch he immediately rummaged through his coat pocket to find his small box of snuff.

But now the snuff was far from his mind as he took care to keep the torch dry even as he was forced to make use of its unwrapped end to push the boat off to sea. Gripping both it and the oar in his large hands he paddled into position, checking every few minutes that he remained on the path someone approaching from the Bay would follow. When he was certain he had gone as far as was prudent, he set down the oar and lit the waxed cloth on the oil lamp. All was quiet across the sea, with no sign of anyone else aside from the few nighttime fishermen, themselves almost fixtures in the landscape. Still, Javert fixed his gaze for a moment towards the West, where he knew the _Bagne_ lay beyond the horizon. That faint line where this night's pristinely clear sky blended into a windswept field of twinkling water, which too seemed to be guarded by stars. How could failure come to pass on a night like this? Impossible.

Overtaken by a childlike awe quite at odds with his physical stature, he lowered himself to one knee and leaned over the water to dip in a cupped hand, hoping to scoop up a star. But all he managed to catch was a handful of the fiery orange glow from his own torch, and he shook his hand dry in disgust. A brief flash barely in the periphery of his vision alarmed him to the fall of his rosary, which had crept from his pocket and its cross was already halfway submerged. Sobered into his usual scowl, he stuffed it back into his pocket and thanked the God Valjean prayed to that the water tonight felt warmer than he remembered.

  **\--**

Even before Valjean had resurfaced from his controlled dive underwater, he searched for the shadow of one of the large crates which Dijon had given the order to discard, along with many smaller pieces of wood scraps. He hid behind it, out of sight from the ship, and took a minute to peel off his soaked red convict's jacket. This he tossed inside the crate. Then he drew a deep breath and dived again, to go behind the next crate, and then another, until there was no more place to hide further from the ship. With stiff fingers he set to work on the side buttons of his pants, opening some, then pulling hard to tear most of their eyelets as sea would do in time. Soon, the bulky shackle on his ankle could pass through. When, after quite a bit of contorting his body and using the crate to help stay afloat, he managed to shed this last piece of conspicuous clothing, only a small sliver of the sun was left above the horizon. Within a matter of minutes it will be dark enough.

He put this time to good use by thinking through again all the critical instructions Dijon had conveyed to him the night before, inside the _cachot_.

"... sailors predict clear skies ahead. It is time. ... listen! You will already be near the mouth of the harbor, hide until darkness will cover you... but remember where the sun set! You head towards the light of La Tour Royale (military tower) and pass it, then you turn away from the sun. If you forget to turn you will lose sight of the shore."

 "Then you are safe to be closer to shore and to look for La Mître (distinctive rock formation). If you see a second tower - it is nearly impossible, but if you do - turn back! You've gone too far."

 "...after you jump, no search will be ordered, that I will make sure for you. You only worry about swimming, and you only think about the people waiting for you. Javert had arrived in Toulon days ago."

"... he will be waiting for you."

As the looming ship before him gradually faded before his eyes into little more the light of a few lamps, he turned to face the boundless sea and swam his first stroke.

At first his movements were rigid and uncertain, but after his muscles warmed up he settled into a fast, steady pace. He swam until he lost track of time, fueled by the light that shone high above the horizon, as if suspended above an abyss, sharp even if the seawater clouded his sight. As it became brighter and closer, only two thoughts filled his mind: to take the next breath and to pass it.

He did. Then came the absolute darkness of the open sea.

Valjean stopped, panting, and ran a trembling hand over his face as he turned his head to look around him. He had felt increasingly sluggish and tired as he swam, yes, but nothing like what happened as soon as he stopped to tread water. Exhaustion hit him like a cudgel. Dizzying. It made him need to lay down, to curl up. But of course, he could not do it. He tried to stop wanting something he could not have, and kept looking.

Keeping the light ofLa Tour Royale behind him and allowing his eyes to adapt to the darkness, he soon was able to see a faint light dancing on the water to his left. Then he saw another, and another… both to his right and to his left, a multitude of small dots that vanished and resurfaced in time with the waves. Uncertain which ones were the light of land, he used the short section of beach lighted by the tower as a rough guide and pushed forward, trying to remember the direction every time the light of the moon reflected particularly brightly off the exposed surface of a rock. It had become clear to him by now how difficult it would be to find La Mître, because no matter how unique and unmissable the rock formation appeared in broad daylight, all he had to look for was an unusual silhouette against the light of the moon. He could no longer tell whether that hollow feeling inside him was hunger, exhaustion, or dread.

Desperately he kept kicking his legs, fighting consciously to kick as hard with his bad right leg as he did with his left, even though the pain he felt in his hip had long since gone from a dull one to a sharp one. Perhaps this contributed to his being surprised by what struck his shoulder, something blunt and very light. He instinctively jerked away, only to feel a similar object collide with his back. It was as if the sudden rush of adrenaline opened his eyes, and he saw: they were the floating small corks indicating the perimeter of a fishing net, and they were closing around him.

Acting out of instinct, his limbs propelled him in a desperate leap across the floating line away from the closest light entire seconds before his mind understood that the light was the lamp carried by the fisherman. Even after he had escaped the net, he kept swimming as fast as he could, fearful that the splashes he made might have alerted the fisherman of his presence. He swam and swam, too afraid to even stop and look back, until a strong spasm made his leg become marble and the excruciating pain robbed him of his breath. What little light he saw went away as if a pitch black curtain had fallen, even though he knew it was he who was falling; water that was somehow icy and stinging at the same time rushed down his nose and throat, down to his lungs. He shouted and his scream exploded in a huge invisible bubble. Like a young bird mercilessly struck down on its first flight, before it ever had a chance to ride the wind and soar, he fell with his eyes lifted to the sky.

As his mind dulled, he tried to remind himself that carried inside him the forgiveness from God. Forgiveness from his sister. Forgiveness from the man he loved. Even if all of them will forever remain unearned. As he accepted his fate, bitter as it was, he stopped his hands from clawing at the water and his leg from kicking violently, trying to find propulsion. Somehow this made the difference: as he sank, he felt buoyancy, water pushing against his back, and he struggled to hold his breath until the moon reappeared before him, and as he sputtered, coughed out water, he could hear his own voice. Somewhere far, far in the back of his mind, so confused that it could be entirely a figment of his imagination, he remembered being able to float on his back when relaxed. With little other option he willed himself to relax through the painful coughing up of water, trying and occasionally failing not to swallow any more when the waves washed over his face.

He was half blind, half deaf, and too numb now for even the cold to feel uncomfortable; he wiped his watering eyes best as he could and looked for the lights around him. Two dots of light glimmered in opposite directions, almost steady. But the current had carried him far enough that he was no longer certain which light was the tower, and there was nothing to go on except for faith. And perhaps the direction of the wind, the current. Hoping it had not changed, he mouthed a prayer and began his last burst of swimming. He knows the next time his leg cramps up he will not have the strength left to keep breathing.

In a world where everything bobbed nauseatingly up and down, that light ahead of him alone stood untossed by the waves. It grew and grew until it shone through even the splashes made by his increasingly frantic strokes. Wherever its unfailing light struck the undulating crests, it lit a glowing step stretching wide across the sea, extending straight towards him. A stairway. A welcome.

Energized, he redoubled his efforts, striving with each stroke to reach for the next step, then to pull himself up it. Panting and burned by every breath he gulped in, eventually he got close enough for even his blurry eyes to distinguish the object standing at the end of the path: not a tower of brick and mortar, but a man in silhouette, holding a flaming torch. Yet a few steps further while too cautious to trust his heart, he reached forward and got his hand stuck in something just under the water. He stopped, nauseated by the thought that it had all been an illusion and he had just gotten himself into another net, one which will be the death of him. But then the silhouette, which had so far been completely unmoving, came to life and urged him to continue, to not give up.

Something long splashed into the water just ahead of him, like a whip, and seconds later a second. The voice urged him to grab it and he obeyed without hesitation, reaching out with his numb fingers and closing them around the first solid object he touched. When the slender rope-like object slipped right out between his fingers, tangle of something, too thick and too slimy to be part of a net, he realized that it was a dense patch of seaweed.

The flame ahead of him was in a frenzied dance and the man used the torch to divide a path through the seaweed, and then Valjean saw something solid extended towards him, above the level of the water, blocking the light. He held it. It returned a tangible, secure touch, impossible to mistake as that of the sea no matter how much he was dreaming. Then, out of nowhere, he felt a pull and was aware of hard and powerful hands gripping his shoulders, sliding down his arms to his sides, and finally holding him. For a disconcerting moment he felt heavy as lead and he flew into something dry and warm. Something beating. A chest. An embrace.

"Javert" he whispered, hoarse, through his burning throat.

"I am Javert!" Came the far more authoritative response, it was tense, almost as if the man who had thus spoken was irritated by even thought that he could ever be mistaken for anyone else.

The corners of Valjean's mouth lifted into a smile though the water he had swallowed began to rush up his throat and spill from his lips, as soon as he felt solid ground against his back. Weakly, because everything felt so much heavier, he tried to raise his hand to rub at his eyes, but Javert held his arm.

"Hold still. I am shearing off your shirt."

He felt the cold metal draw a line up his chest and then cooperatively rolled onto his side when nudged. For the briefest of moments he lay once more naked, wrinkled and wet, as was the son of a pruner in Faverolles fifty-two years ago, when he was delivered into this world. Then soft cloth rained down as Javert literally opened one saddlebag and inverted it over his body.

While he was being vigorously rubbed dry, his damp skin translucent in the moonlight, he heard Javert speak again; though the words were indistinguishable he nonetheless understood the question to be whether he needed anything. As the world all around staggered dizzyingly to his right and left, he closed his eyes and shook his head. No, he already had more than he ever managed to dream.

Javert humphed in apparent satisfaction and wrapped Valjean with his coat, already warmed with body heat. Then he wrapped a blanket on top of the coat, bundling the trembling man inside a protective cocoon before unscrewing the lid of his water canteen and pushing it against Valjean's bluish tinted lips. Without any further prompts, Valjean drank until it was empty.

"Thank you." Valjean said, his voice shaking as much as his body was.

 "Are you warm? You must sit still while I shave you." Javert said. Though he followed up the caring question with a warning, his voice had lost some of its usual sternness.

"Yes," Valjean answered quite unconvincingly.

Brushing a thumb across Valjean's face and through his overgrown beard, Javert cleaned off all the large pieces of stuck weed, wood, and trash. Then he began with the beard, which was safer as it did not require the close shave the uneven hair did. He set the lamp between them - the torch had already been tossed into the water - and commenced to patiently untangle and to trim the beard a small strand at a time. From time to time he stopped and removed small stems of seaweed and tiny splinters of wood which had been embedded. This took long enough that by the time he deemed the beard respectable, the brown eyes watching his every movement were much clearer, despite being half-closed, and the face around them a much more healthy shade of pink.

With a gentle but secure hand on Valjean's nape, Javert pulled the slumping man back into his chest then worked up a lather with a bar of soap and seawater. He gasped in surprise when the older man shrugged out of the blanket binding his arms to wrap them around his torso.

" _Non_ , you are shaking again!" he chided as he put the torn blanket back across Valjean's broad shoulders, "Keep the blanket on and hold still."

He lathered the unevenly shaved scalp generously and when the trembling against his chest did not subside, held the head in place with his hand as he worked. "You cannot go into town looking like this," Javert muttered, a truth which he was sure the multiple escapee knew. And then, "Stop shaking."

"Stop shaking," he said again, not so much a chastisement, but an advice. When he had shaved everything he could reach and set down the razor to turn Valjean's face the other way he repeated again, "Stop shaking." By now it was almost a plea.

It was not until he stopped again to roll his sleeve which refused to stay above his elbow that Valjean spoke through his soft sobs. "What happened to your clothes?"

"If I must break the law, the least I can do is not to be wearing my uniform."

"But you still have them?" Valjean's embrace tightened until the battered waistcoat bulged with folds around the arms. "You are still a policeman?"

"I don't know." Javert said. There was a slight quiver in his deep voice which belied the turmoil underneath the surface. He cleared his throat. A bit of it still remained."But we may find out after we get to Aix. Now stop shaking." Securely, as naturally as if it belonged there, he put his hand back against Valjean's face.

In the end Javert was forced to stop, not because he was finished but because a sudden jolt of the boat made his hand slip and nick the top of Valjean's ear. “ _Bon sang_! (for goodness sake)" Javert muttered. He instinctively reached for the handkerchief in his coat pocket and grasped at air before he remembered the coat was beneath the blanket. While keeping the piece of cloth pressed against the wound, he stowed away the razor and tossed the salvageable rags back into his saddlebags.

 All was calm until, in a bold, decisive movement Javert thrust his hand though the unbuttoned front of his coat, and placed it against Valjean's chest. "Are you warmed up?" he asked, completely oblivious to the immodesty of his action until the older man gazed up at him in shock, cheeks now thoroughly flushed. But the policeman only pulled the flaps of the coat back together and muttered gruffly, "Warm enough to get dressed."

He laid out the set of clothing on his lap and wordlessly helped Valjeaninto first the shirt then the jacket, before handing the exhausted man his new trousers. It did not take more than a few half-hearted attempts to pull the iron shackle still around Valjean's ankle through the pants leg for them to see that it will not fit past the stiff patch sewn into it at the level of the knee, but with a swift yet unmistakable gesture of his hand Javert had him keep his foot right where it was. Using the same pair of shears he cut the wet shirt with, he opened the seam on the inside of the leg, up to the shackle. Without needing to be told, Valjean pulled his foot through and untucked the hem where it caught the shackle.

"It will do," Valjean said after he tied the drawstring around his waist and put on the shoes. "Your coat, it will cover the shackle for now. I have a small file that hopefully will work."

"I have a hacksaw."

Valjean lowered his eyes. "Yes, then… that will work better."

Paying attention to avoid the small wound on the ear, Javert put the cap onto Valjean's incompletely shaved head, pulled up the coat's tall collar, then checked how it looked. Now even to someone making eye contact with Valjean, he looked like a white bearded bald man, ill-dressed due to the too long coat which swept the ground, but not unusual. A man to be despised, possibly, but not one to be arrested. He will be safe.

"Sit down, Valjean, and look at the stars," he urged. He glanced up and looked also, but quickly redirected his attention to the water below because he was manning the oar.

Though they were not far from shore, the outbound current and dense weed meant the journey back will take sometime. However, each had their own reasons not to mind.

 Shreds of sea foam swirled and tore under the oars; they parted then gathered with a furtive whisper.

"Valjean."

During the silence which followed, a small fish leapt out of the water and flopped back down. Eventually Valjean responded, the grogginess clear in his voice, "... Javert?"

Now warm, dry, and no longer exerting himself trying to encircle his arms around Javert, the gentle bobbing of the water, so lethal not long ago, was cradling him into a much-needed slumber.

"Do you ever wonder how the stars find their places?" Javert asked, and after more silence, only received a soft sound, halfway between a grunt and question in response. "I meant, do you ever look up and wonder whether a man can be as sure of his place as a star?"

"Eh…? No… it would be very difficult."

Finally Javert stopped rowing to glance over his shoulder. He wrapped the blanket back around the torso of the man curled against the sloping side of the boat, against half-hearted protests.

"It would be… very difficult…" Valjean tried again, when Javert's shadow fell across his eyes.

 "It is difficult. But it is what needs to be."

At this response, Valjean closed his eyes fully and soon after, softly began to snore. It was the voice, not the words, which mattered. He slept so soundly and so peacefully, even through the rough stop into shore, that Javert took his time to load the horse before rousing him.

"Wake up, and you will need to stay awake for quite a while." Looping his long arms under Valjean's armpits, he hoisted the shorter man upright then turned him to face the saddle. "Get on the horse," he said, after he lifted Valjean's foot onto the stirrup. This took more effort than it should, and Javert was forced to press one hand against his aching side and while Valjean pushed down on his shoulder. But eventually he took the reins and led the way, lighting the ground ahead with his lamp. The inn in which he had already reserved a room was on the near edge of Le Mourillon, not far away but still a slight climb from the shore.

Often, he placed a hand on Valjean's knee to check that the man whose body swayed with each step was not slipping off the saddle. It was one small fact that Madeleine never bothered to hide: he had been born a peasant, and had never owned a horse. So perhaps it would make little difference to keep him awake, but that sort of thing never stopped Inspector Javert.

Without preamble, he spoke. "How can the law make exceptions and yet still remain absolute?" The innocent question, spoken at his usual volume, was uncomfortably loud in the dark. "Who deserves to judge who is worthy of an exception, if even the ones with the title of Judge cannot do it?"

He laid a hand on Valjean's thigh.

"It is a very important question."

"Thinking about it will keep you awake."

"... what…? Javert…?"

"Keep thinking about it, we are almost there."

The crabby innkeeper, just back to his desk after washing the night's dishes, greeted them with a hostile look from the moment they entered through the door. To his credit, virtually all men who returned at this hour so disheveled had left a mess for him to clean the next morning.

"You rented me a room for two." Walking right up to face the innkeeper's glare, Javert spoke calmly. He shifted Valjean's weight a bit and stooped down to reach into his coat pocket.

"Just go, just go --" the innkeeper said, and gestured with his hand towards the staircase. But it was too late; a scribbled note was held up to his face.

"This is the rental agreement. You wrote it."

"Yes and now I regret to have written it!" Nonetheless the ill-tempered innkeeper waved them on their way with another careless flick of his hand. "That way! Don't block the entrance and don't block the stairs!" Then he glared as they struggled to navigate through the densely-packed tables and cursed under his breath, “ _Putain de soûlards! Tous des fumiers_!” (Fucking drunks! All of them bastards!)

After climbing up two flights of stairs, no small feat for Javert who was carrying not just Valjean but everything he had on the horse, he was ready to take a seat right there on the floor of their room. However there was still much left to do, beginning with sawing off the thick shackle.

"You can sleep now," he said as he folded up the cut pant leg.

He took his time to carefully start the cut, but after that the hacksaw he had, which policemen sometimes use to cut through metal as thick as vehicle axles, sawed clean through the metal within minutes. Then he left with pieces of shackle wrapped in a rag, only to return with a bucket of hot water he had purchased.

Two men, two stools, a bucket of water. Valjean, sitting hunched on the stool, with only a discolored towel wrapped around his waist, had both hands on Javert's shoulders. His eyes, sleepy yet with a warmth to rival that of the steaming water, watched the man who scrubbed at the grime caked into his chest hair with a bar of soap. Nothing was said; the only communication made was by virtue of their breaths - gentle reminders that they were not alone.

After the chest Javert moved to the arms. What the soap could not remove - mostly dried tar - he tried to scratched away with his fingernails before deciding that it took too long, as the water was already starting to cool.

"I am not good at caulking."

"And you are at carrying things." Came the spontaneous comment, as if to prevent a sentence from being left incomplete, that both embarrassed and stunned Valjean.

Finding the razor again, Javert made a closer second pass over the scalp with the razor then checked his handiwork by running his palm over Valjean's head. The man who was now shorn of entirely of his white hair looped his arms around Javert's neck and close his eyes. But when Javert rose, and held his arm to keep him seated while picking up the stool and bucket, he tensed. He gripped his knees with his hands, and lowered his eyes when Javert disappeared past his side. He held his breath and listened for the sounds of the bucket and the stool being set down behind him, and then the softer sound of cloth rubbing and folding, of the man taking the seat.

Grueling long seconds passed with no movement, with each one more of a judgment than the last. He lifted his tearing eyes up towards heaven. "It is enough to me that I don't have to hide it from you," he told the man behind him. "You don't have to wash it. It is not worth washing."

Even the small flinch in Javert's hand, still on his upper arm, seemed to affirm the repulsive sight which was his back.

Water dripped slowly, ticking away time.

"For having broken the law, you must wear this brand. For having violated the rules of the _Bagne_ you must wear these scars. But even brands and scars are worth being washed." He spoke with the solemnity of a judge who had just crashed his gavel and sealed a fate.

Or perhaps it was simply as anything else Javert deemed to be right: to be defended with life and limb.

A broken gasp forced its way through Valjean's teeth when he felt something on his back which was something other than pain, on one of the few places still with the capacity to sense touch -- a gap between two scars. As if time which had been frozen suddenly restarted, the sound of dripping water resumed. And Jean Valjean quaked from head to toe when a saturated warm towel was pressed against his back, rivulets of soapy water streamed down, dodging the crests while flooding the valleys carved into the pale flesh. As pools formed around the stool's legs, a churlishly muttered word - "Ninny!" - made Valjean's eyes go wide and his trembling lips clamped shut.

Soothing steam rose from the bucket in thin whispers to caress Valjean's face, almost dizzying, and as the strength in his arms weakened, his muscular body swayed more and more with Javert's insistent yet gentle scrubbing. Even Javert's continued muttering about his offending sleeves did nothing to slow the downward nods of Valjean's head, not until the freshly trimmed white beard hit the chest. It was only when he felt Javert tense, and heard a mutter which endearingly sounded like a lecture - "Sleeves were invented to make life easier not more difficult!" - did Valjean manage to re-emerge from his haze and lay his hand on the one grasping his shoulder. Sure enough, the ruffled edge of the sleeve was drenched and clung halfway up the hand, whose fingers flexed in response. A soft smile formed on Valjean's lips.

But that was surely the last willful act he managed on that day, because soon after, when the towel around his waist was unraveled and the wet washcloth thrust into his hand, he nearly dropped it trying to wash himself. And when Javert not only took the cloth back but also washed him with it, Jean Valjean did not manage to feel embarrassed. Not anymore. He only felt cared for, and loved. This was how he fell asleep.

Heavy bootsteps reverberated down the wood flooring and the door repeatedly opened and shut. When finally the bucket was returned and the wet clothes hung up to dry, Inspector Javert sat down on the tiny, discolored hay mattress, next to the man who was tossing and turning in his sleep, his fingers gripping the bed frame in desperation. A man could have slept chained by his foot for so long that the lack of it was disorientating. He could have slept on a wooden _tôlard_ , with only enough space to lay on his side, that to be on a proper mattress was nightmare-inducing. He could have been deprived of the feelings of warmth and safety that his body no longer knows how to respond to it without conscious thought. Long enough and a man could be conditioned into something lower than a horse, lower than a dog. A beast.

Perhaps in his own way, Javert pondered this thought. "Do men never change?” he muttered as he cupped Valjean's newly-shaved scalp with his calloused palm. " _Oui_. And he wanted me to share his bed" - his bushy eyebrows knitted into a knot above his nose - "... so he must still want the same?" What once to Javert was as indisputable as a law of the land, now did not seem so clear anymore.

"But he was a _maire_ , and then he was a convict, and now he is neither… He wished for me to share his bed, that was before the change…" The worn pad of his thumb brushed slow, short lines across the smooth skin. "... That must mean… he does not wish it anymore?" Javert scowled across the empty side of the room.

A soft gasp drew his attention to the bed, and the man who had appeared to be in a battle with the covers but now had gone quiet. Javert's gaze softened, and moved from the face to his own hand, then back to the face. Not even for him did it make sense to stuck on the next course of action when his hand had long since made the choice. It would be inefficient. "Men never change," he reaffirmed to himself. "Valjean wants me in the bed and he wants everything but the horrible shirt off."

He got under the blankets and put his arms around the sleeping form, and waited patiently for the other man to settle into his presence. The back pressed into his chest, and the lame right leg, the one searching for a chain, became tangled between his legs. Then all was quiet, and with a humph, the inspector blew out the bedside lamp.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Convict's uniforms
> 
> https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT8Xgl2ZCkSxqXo9WSpBpOV_1MxypWfqXtcJVdMLAVNkNRcC1TU
> 
> http://www.google.es/imgres?imgurl=http://fvidocq.free.fr/images/GR_Bagne_tenue_bagnard.jpg&imgrefurl=http://fvidocq.free.fr/bagne.html&h=928&w=604&tbnid=xi1zLgcO5pRVmM:&docid=pLu_M7epXt7z_M&ei=NE0NVt_6JsK8abGAjYAM&tbm=isch&ved=0CCAQMygAMABqFQoTCN_kwbrHocgCFUJeGgodMUADwA
> 
> Prisoners sentenced to time wore a red cap; the cap of lifers was green. The colors of the uniforms varied over time, and also depended on bagne in which the prisoner was serving his sentence. For example, the convict about to finish serving his time was granted a brown cap. Repeat offenders could wera a yellow sleeve in their jackets. The jacket sleeves of unruly inmates were of mismatched colors. Trusted prisoners wore a patch of yellow cloth around their neck and shoulders.
> 
> To learn more about the convicts’ uniform :  
> http://philippepoisson-hotmail.com.over-blog.com/2015/06/tenues-vestimentaires-et-tatouages-de-bagnards-reperes.html
> 
>  
> 
> Map of Toulon Bay showing Valjean's escape route. La Mitre, La Tour Royale, and Fort Saint Louis are circled.
> 
>  
> 
> Map of France showing Javert and Valjean's trip, with Montreuil, Aix, Toulon, Paris circled.
> 
>  
> 
> Fishing and fishermen conflicts in the bay of Toulon:  
> http://provence-historique.mmsh.univ-aix.fr/Pdf/PH-2000-50-202_06.pdf
> 
> Beach of La Mître :  
> http://www.plagemed.com/plages-et-criques-de-la-mitre/
> 
> Le Mourillon :  
> Description at page 57:  
> http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k1644813.r=mongin%20laurent
> 
> La Tour Royale :  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tour_Royale,_Toulon
> 
> Le Fort Saint Louis :  
> https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Saint-Louis_%28Toulon%29


	63. A new life

 

Jean Valjean woke to a rustling sound, and remained still with firmly clenched eyelids. It was the dreaded time of day in which men like him clung to their dreams, refusing to let go of those homes they were no longer sure once existed, and of those fading voices which still filled their memories.

Soon the guards' whistles will rob him of even this fleeting refuge, and the éprouvé will stop at him with hammer and chisel, ruthlessly pulling at the chain which bound fifty men together by their ankles with the wooden platform they called a bed. And soon he will be freed from the spot which was marked with the number summarizing his identify. It would be the start of yet another day.

He swung his leg over the bed, feeling the familiar stiffness around his ankle. This would be the moment when the shackle would bite right into the already scarred flesh as it did the day before and the day before that, never giving it a chance to fully heal. When the pain which overwhelmed even his exhaustion will make him open his eyes. But no sharp pain came; no sound but steady steps filled the silence.

" _Bonjour_."

The deep voice made Valjean sit up abruptly and blink repeatedly at the tall, coated silhouette. The man stood out against the hesitant, blue-tinted light of dawn, and was busy gathering clothes off a line stretched across the room. Then Valjean, his brain finally catching on, realized that there was a window, and air enough to breathe. There was Javert. And there was warmth at the way Javert pressed his lips together in an expression Valjean already knew but was never able to place.

" _Bonjour_." His response came out as an astonished croak.

He intended to go to the other man, but only got as far as to pull back the covers when he felt the chill in the air against his chest. He was naked. Valjean shifted to see the pillow beside him, then gulped as he saw the imprint Javert's head had left there. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his disbelieving eyes and chose to focus instead in the tightness he felt around his ankle, which was actually a cloth tied like a bandage. And soon it was Javert who came to him first, stooping down to the level of the bed with a fluid, resolute motion. The policeman adjusted the linen around Valjean's shoulder where the still sore flesh nearby his brand was swollen, then he leveled their faces and cupped the older man's ear with rough yet surprisingly careful fingers. His lips were again pressed tightly together into a line, and his gaze somewhat darkened.

A spark of understanding shone in Valjean's eyes as he raised his hand to touch the fresh scab and recalled distantly the sting of the razor when Javert's hand had slipped. He closed his hand into a fist to hold off fingers which itched to smooth the creases of concern drawn on Javert's brow, and watched the man rise without being able to offer but an uncertain smile of comfort.

The Inspector pointed towards the table as he returned to the clothesline. "Those are your clothes and that is the breakfast. The diligence departs in half an hour."

Though reluctant to step out naked he clearly had no choice, and his mouth was already watering at the sight of the apple on the table. So he went and got dressed quickly before taking his seat. The pant-leg he faintly remembered had been cut was now sewn closed with a utilitarian whipstitch, which a proper seamstress would frown upon and yet held up fine. He touched the protruding seam with his fingers and bit into his apple. The wrinkled paper left on the table for him read, _"Le Moniteur Universel, Jeudi le 17 Avril 1823_ ” (Thursday April 17, 1823)"

"It is three days old," Javert's tone was vaguely apologetic. "But I thought you might still want to read it."

Valjean hummed his agreement, resisting the urge to press his eyes shut at the taste of the juices filling his mouth.

“... Our heroic troops continue their relentless march towards Madrid”, could be read. It seemed that he had managed to miss the start of yet another war. A vague feeling of guilt crept into his stomach as he focused on carefully nibbling at his fruit, all the while casting occasional glances at Javert in wonder. The man folding the blanket which sheltered Valjean the night before seemed completely oblivious, gracefully completing his task which the width of his arms made nearly effortless.

Valjean tried to keep reading, somewhat embarrassed by his own furtive behavior, and to savor the piece of fruit which Javert had gifted to him. As a pruner's son he was raised to always save the seeds, but this time he swallowed it all - the core, the seeds, everything - when he was finished, he only had the stem to put back on the table. But then Javert came to him again, this time with a smaller apple which he set next to the stem. "Here is another," the man said. The timing could only mean that Javert had been watching him devour the first apple.

Jean Valjean considered to decline because he was not sure Javert had eaten yet. But there was an insistence, a pride in providing for him which he glimpsed in Javert's eyes, which he dared not violate. He ate the second apple too.

 

Some minutes later, a tall man in a coat and a shorter one in a jacket, with a coarse blanket wrapped around his shoulders, entered the _Poste_ Station. One appeared to be a recently discharged soldier, the other seemed a peasant going through hard times who had patched up some worn clothes belonging to a neighbor before undertaking the journey. But in the way they stood side by side with the ease that only habit brings, carrying on their shoulders identical overfilled saddlebags, any observer would have recognized two friends heading towards the capital in search of a new life.

They climbed up to the _impériale_ , the cheap seat on the roof of the diligence, and silently traveled wrapped in sticky fog until well into the morning. Thus sheltered from prying eyes, Valjean forgot to hide his smile and later, as timid sun beams uncovered soft, renewed earth awaiting to be sowed, he guessed that he no longer had reasons to.

He kept gazing at turns down at the leather covering, faded into suede, then at the man sitting next to him in a barely relaxed way. Javert was looking straight ahead, small grimaces of annoyance now clearly visible on his face as he blinked heavily against the growing sunlight. Valjean watched in fascination the slight shifts Javert made every so often, the way he bent a knee, then righted it. Until the Inspector pulled the brim of his top-hat down and Valjean’s gaze followed his hand, eyes suddenly filled with sorrow.

Thereafter Valjean kept gazing repeatedly at Javert’s hand, in vain to glimpse the shape of a wedding band on that fourth finger, underneath the glove. His mind still struggled to believe that the touch on his shoulder, the shake of the seat bringing them occasionally together, even the fresh air he breathed, were all real and not part of a dream. Yet now he desperately strained it to remember whether the night before, the hand which washed him wore a ring.

Doubt and guilt, those familiar companions,crept quickly into Valjean's soul. What madness had seized him, to the point of making him forget that Javert's life would keep going without him? Hadn't he already had Javert for too long? And yet, why be the one to ask the question which could put an end to what they shared in this moment?

Valjean turned his face away, then opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, as if practicing a question and trying to hear it in his own mind before breaking the silence. Fearful of how it would sound to the other man.

"How was the wedding?" he asked. None of his effort made the words come out any less abrupt.

But a laconic reply came quickly: "It was canceled." And Valjean gasped, frozen under Javert's questioning gaze. He was desperately trying to guess his companion's mood - was it grief?, relief? - but he found no hint.

Valjean clenched his jaw tightly. He could not bring himself to utter the polite condolence, fearful that his next word would be an irrepressible and too obvious "why?". So he simply kept gazing at Javert as the man turned his attention back to the road. Soon, Javert's imperceptible shifts became slow swings, later, erratic wiggles. Valjean watched unafraid the younger man's face, as his drooping eyelids ceased to fight the sunlight. He looked forward while his arm snaked around Javert’s shoulder, and pulled encouragingly until he could feel the Inspector’s weight on him, then a shaggy cheek on top of his head.

He placed Javert's top hat on his lap, and traced his finger over the odd jagged crease line across its brim, which he had never before noticed. Finally, Valjean allowed his smile to grow.

**\----**

Night had fallen by the time the vehicle entered the city, and what broke the peace which had settled between them was not the violently erratic movement as the driver swerved around traffic, but the closing walls which blocked off their view of the stars.

They gathered their belongings and alighted into the crowds of Aix's _Poste_ Station, where the Inspector stood and watched for some minutes. For Valjean, who had not once questioned where they were headed, even in the privacy of his mind, this wait brought back memories of the visceral horror which was complete uncertainty. Uncertainty in where the next meal will be found, uncertainty in where to find shelter, uncertainty in whether he will be man or convict when the next day dawned.

Soon the majority of the crowd cleared away, and Javert, apparently coming to the conclusion that this was not the right place, led Valjean to a quiet corner. There he turned to Valjean and took a long moment to square up the frayed lapels, adjust the makeshift gauntlet cuffs at the end of each too-long sleeve, and even lifted the cap to check the shaved head. As he replaced the cap the inspector spoke softly, in a way which made it unclear whether these words were intended only to himself, back when no one would ever be close enough to hear them: "I do not know whether what I saw on the new hires was considered a uniform. But this is very close." Valjean did not understand what was meant but nonetheless, he gave Javert his best smile and followed when the taller man marched out of the station and down the street. Though at first Valjean struggled, not just with his bad hip still aching from its exertions the day before but also shoes which didn't fit too well, but it did not take many steps for Javert to notice the dragging footsteps behind him becoming softer. Immediately he walked back to Valjean and they looked at each other apologetically before starting anew and finding a pace which worked for them both.

The hour was late enough that most of those still outside walked with intent, whether it be to make a last-minute purchase or to hurry home for dinner, and no one paid the pair of slowly moving old men any attention, except for a few whom Valjean recognized as homeless. And Javert passed them all, stores and restaurants, always watching but never once slowing down until they approached an inn. Two men sat drinking at one of its outdoor tables, a slightly unusual sight given the temperature. So inconspicuous was the initial eye contact they made with Javert that Valjean missed it entirely, and only by the barest of margins avoided walking into the policeman who had made an abrupt stop.

Javert turned to find only the top of Valjean's cap and announced, completely unperturbed, "We are staying here for the night."

Though Valjean obeyed without a second thought, he could not help but steal a glance at the two men as he passed through the door. One was dressed in well-tailored clothes with an understated elegance, like a typical bourgeois who had earned his riches; the other a man dressed entirely in black, in a way which made his red hair a jarring sight. Valjean was unable to decide whether this second man was in mourning or a priest.

Javert proceeded to rent the cheapest room from the innkeeper, an irregularly shaped space all the way at the end of the hallway, dusty and with barely enough room leftover after the bed to hold its table and single chair. They had done little beyond unburdening themselves of their saddlebags when the two men invited themselves in as if the room was theirs, the bourgeois claiming the seat and his friend locking the door.

"Monsieur Vidocq," Javert said to the seated man who was busy with his briefcase, "This is Jean Valjean."

The man's loose curls flapped about as he cocked an eyebrow at Javert for stating the obvious. "One of these days it will be Napoleon Bonaparte interviewing for a job with my _Sûreté_!" he said gleefully. His solemnly garbed lieutenant, standing behind him in the shadows, laughed.

Vidocq glanced at some notes in the light of the candle and gestured for Valjean to take a seat on the bed across from him. And then it began, with just a contemplative hurumph his countenance changed into that of someone not so composed.

"Oh Monsieur! My supplier sent notice again that he could not meet the delivery date! _Le salaud_! (That son of a bitch!) What am I to stock my shelves with? Your store is always so busy, you must help me!" As suddenly as it began, it was over, and Valjean was left bewildered by both the outburst and the expectant gazes fixed on him. White brows drawn tight he glanced at Javert for reassurance, but only found a tense frown there. It was then that he realized they were in this together. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

"Monsieur," he began with that practiced smile he wore as Madeleine, "I do not believe we had met, but I am happy to help where I can." It was the safe way to respond, a way to buy time. Enough for him to gain confidence and remember his old life. "Maybe your supplier encountered a delay sourcing his materials, it happened to myself more than once when my business was smaller. But, what product is it you are due? Certainly in this city we can find someone else to sign a single delivery contract, though it may cost you more…" He was not at his most coherent but he knew better than to ask to start again. So to Vidocq's blank, seemingly unimpressed face, he could only shrug a bit stiffly and offer in conclusion, "Sometimes paying more or even taking a slight loss is the better option to risking the reputation of your business, Monsieur."

Vidocq waited a second to make sure Valjean was done. "Neighborly," he muttered, and glanced towards his nameless lieutenant. "Reminds me of my cobbler," that man added admiringly. An oddly mundane sentiment indeed, coming from a man whose constant endeavor to blend in the shadows kept being foiled by the shine of the large silver buckles on his shoes.

The head of the _Sûreté_ quickly jotted a few notes down before making eye contact again, as a signal that he will resume. Then, at the blink of an eye, he had transformed into yet another personality, judging from the frantic hand gestures this time a much more dramatic one. "Monsieur le Maire! My family had resided here, at 37 Rue des Chantiers for three full generations and never had a neighbor splash dirty wash water into MY sewer hole until yesterday! What blasphemy!" Vidocq -- the character he was playing -- jabbed angry fingers at the dusty air. "They moved in two weeks and still I had not seen them in church, for the good of the town you must convince them to leave!" Then he dropped the act and casually picked his pen up again.

This time no longer taken by surprise, Valjean found himself able to actually analyze the situation, and he grew comfortable enough to allow the awkward silence to continue until he had formulated his response. "Monsieur, the sewer hole in front of your property is not a part of it," he began, with a calmness which contrasted immediately with what happened before. "Unless that wash water has litter in it and some was left on your porch, your neighbor had not violated any laws. I advise you to speak to your neighbor in private, and I am happy to arbitrate if that would be helpful…" The tone was stern enough to make clear his words was a reprimand, yet the message was conciliatory as was the nature of Madeleine, and now Jean Valjean. But here, after delivering his answer he glanced at Javert and noticed the frown had changed, just a little bit at the corner of the lips. After their eyes met in passing, Valjean quickly turned back to Vidocq and augmented his response a little hesitantly: "If you continue to be uncivil to your neighbor I will need to send the Chief Inspector to visit, and that is not what you want."

With this single sentence the frown was wiped from Javert's face; it would seem that for the on-leave Chief Inspector, being invoked in a threat against a potential lawbreaker, even a hypothetical one, was both an honor and the best part of his day. It was plain for all to see that he was terribly pleased with himself.

Valjean lowered his head to hide the small smile which had crept up his face, and thanked God in heaven that though Madeleine was fake, somehow Madeleine's relationship with his Chief Inspector was real. However this moment passed too quickly as Vidocq's final evaluation reached his ears. "Good. A bit too eager to help for the average magistrate." It was spoken not in the tone of a complaint but that of a helpful piece of advice. "So all those news reports out of Montreuil-sur-Mer had a bit of truth in them after all -- you look just like a convict yet I can feel the authority." He looked towards his lieutenant.

"My only complaint is that he did not address you as Madame," the man quipped. At this point it was understood by all that Valjean had passed, so this joke not only got a smile out of Vidocq but also out of Valjean. And the man continued, stepping out from the shadows and with appreciation in his voice, "Just have him grow his beard out three days and he can get himself accepted into a gang. Look at those shoulders and that chest!" Seeing Javert also eye Valjean's physique, as if in agreement with him, he teased, "Are you even sure he is a man and not a bull?" Once again, Vidocq chuckled.

However Javert, the man to whom the comment was actually addressed, glared back in disbelief and declared indignantly, " _Oui_! He was definitely one last night." It was a statement which brokered no disagreement.

For a full second, the entire room fell silent. The unfortunate wording invited the exercise of one's imagination and quickly, the lieutenant's mouth fell open in a crooked smile, his eyes shining with overjoyed malice. Aware of how that statement sounded and guessing how it had in fact been interpreted, Valjean awkwardly cleared his throat. Slowly he rubbed his face with an open palm, as if he were tired, plausibly from his travel. Yet his bared scalp betrayed him: it was flushed.

"Thin-skinned," Vidocq commented as he wrote more notes. "Shame."

Javert frowned.

"I… I will try to do better in the future." Valjean managed guiltily as he fought to regain his composure.

"Fine. You will perform trash collection until your hair grows out. Report to my office in Paris Friday morning." - He lifted his chin towards Javert - "He has the address." So were Valjean's first orders. Then Vidocq simply ignored his new hire and turned to Javert, whose relief was now apparent on his face. "Monsieur l'Inspecteur, your turn," the head of Sûreté said in a mocking tone. "A gang of three has a gun pointed at a hostage's head inside a room. You are leading the raid. What is your course of action?"

"Stop the criminals," Javert responded, giving the question as little thought as would someone who had been told ahead of time what the correct answer was. That is, no thought at all. Vidocq nearly raised his eyebrow to his hairline, nonverbally making clear that the lack of effort was unacceptable.

Javert stroked his whiskers with the backs of his fingers. "I distract the criminal with the gun, then signal to the sharpshooter stationed outside the window," he tried again.  
  
"No windows."  
  
Javert nodded as his expression became solemn. "It is a windowless warehouse?" he asked.

"Yes. Only one other with you, only a door."  
  
For some seconds the policeman was quiet, almost brooding. He had observed that Valjean's lengthy responses were deemed satisfactory and naturally attempted to come up with something similar. "I get them to point the gun at me instead," he began, and paused to consider his next sentence. But there were no caveats, no conditions, nothing to expand his answer with. "Then I arrest the criminals," he concluded, a bit disappointed with himself.  
  
Vidocq traded looks with the man by his side. "Suicidal and incapable of subtlety," he adjudged, not at all amused. It was the other man who appeared more and more so, not just by the ludicrous response given but by the subtle reactions he could see on the bear-like former convict's face. How the lips were pressed flat and the skin beneath his snowy beard tensed.

"You will be transferred to the _Préfecture de Police_ with a demotion to inspector," Vidocq said, already having lost interest in Javert. "For us you will serve as liaison. You ensure my communication gets to your Secrétaire Chabouillet so he knows to get out of our way."

" _Oui_ Monsieur, as long as Monsieur le Préfet approves both the transfer and the arrangement." For a man incapable of sarcasm, Javert managed to sound very skeptical indeed.

"He will." With this terse response Vidocq rose from the chair and began to stuff his note paper back into his briefcase, clearly eager to leave.

"Wait!" Involuntarily Vidocq froze at Javert's effortlessly authoritative and commanding voice. "What about his pay, what if he gets injured on duty?" the policeman inquired urgently. "He is branded and he will be denounced by any normal doctor."

Frustrated at his own reaction Vidocq made a point to finish packing his briefcase before responding.

"The pay is at the conclusion of each assignment. Since he is multi-talented he should not be short on jobs, though due to their nature sometimes they fail unpredictably. Sometimes they fail because of the police." Stressing this last sentence, Vidocq shot Javert a warning glare. "As for medical treatment-," the nimble brown eyes darted over to Valjean, "You will find that though I don't pay much, I treat my men better than any criminals I send them to spy on. We have access to military doctors. As long as you don't do nonsense like Monsieur Javert here-- ignoring doctor's orders just to leave blood all over my desk--"

Valjean's face fell. He looked up at Javert in abject horror, but found the policeman intensely focused on Vidocq.

"--if the military doctors refuse to treat you, you are on your own."

"There is no reason to believe he will act that way, Monsieur," Javert said.

“You were injured?" Valjean finally managed, a harsh whisper which nonetheless was loud enough to be heard by everyone. He received only a sharp nod and a stern, "Not now."

The resulting silence turned frosty as Valjean's body language - the locked jaws and the way he wiped his palm on the rough fabric of his trousers - made clear he could hardly wait for the meeting to be over. But Vidocq was stopped by yet another question, again from Javert.

"Monsieur Vidocq," he said respectfully, as the rude manner in which Vidocq had addressed him not long ago barely registered at all, "Can you grant an advance on his first pay, for necessities such as food and a coat? The tickets to Paris will use up everything we have left."

For the first time this entire meeting, Vidocq showed that he was capable of appearing uncomfortable. "No," the man said, pushing one tuft of curls behind his ear, "The entire department is paid by the case. I have only hired in Paris because I could not even pay for men to travel to Paris. Here, have a meal with this." He quickly produced a ten sous piece from his pocket.

" _Non_. Then you have already made an exception for him. _Merci_ Monsieur, we will manage."

Vidocq shrugged, and without any further exchange of words, left through the squeaky door. However the man dressed in black paused at it digging through his hip pocket. With a brilliant smile he held out a gold forty franc coin to Javert, who was there waiting to lock the door. "This is a personal gift from me."

This Javert accepted. " _Merci_ Monsieur, you will be paid back."

In a way which was much more deliberate than his superior, this man shrugged. "You want to give me money, I won't object."

The policeman frowned and looked him up and down for a moment, aware that the man was doing the same. "What is your name?"

"Vautrin." Now apparently done with looking at Javert, he shifted his body to one side to glance at the one still seated on the bed. "You are clearly in quite some trouble. Don't allow him to stay angry through the night!" he advised too joyously, and left with a wink.

Despite the delay, Javert returned to find that Valjean had neither moved nor changed expression. One which he had never seen before, and therefore could not begin to read. "Is Vautrin right?" he asked. "Are you angry at me?"

Unable to get a response, he tried again: "Do you want to hug?"

The question hung in the air between them for an endless moment, until Valjean sighed and finally moved, if only to cover his face with his hand. "Yes," he spoke into the heel of his palm. "But first I want to know why you didn't tell me."

"It is mending now." Not having had a chance to do so until now, Javert unbuttoned the double-breasted front of his coat and hung it up on the stand in the corner, causing it to tip onto the shortest of its uneven legs.

"Even though it is mending, you should have told me." And yet here, Valjean was at a loss for words to describe what difference it would have made. Offered to carry Javert's bags too? Force the poor man to slow himself down even more? He shook his head dejectedly. "Is it-- was it, serious?"

" _Oui_ ," Javert nodded solemnly as he sat down next to Valjean. "I had been on sick leave for seventy-two days," he explained as he methodically worked through the buttons on his jacket. "More than ten weeks," he said, as he pulled up the tail of his shirt to reveal the clean bandage around his midsection. The disbelief in his voice grew and grew, as this was the first time he actually thought about his time off in these terms. "That is two and a half months! It is awful." He concluded in defeat, and was too horrified by his realization to do anything beyond granting Valjean permission to help him out of his shirt and to untie the bandage. It was due for a change anyway.

Silently he watched Valjean untuck the loose ends of the bandage and undo the quick-release knot, then slowly unwind the layers of camphor-scented gauze. As the last linen fell, Valjean let out a burst of air through clenched teeth and grew pale. "The clean bandages are in the bottom of the saddlebag you carried, under the rags", Javert said. Yet his attempt to be helpful only chiseled deeper the grimace lines across Valjean's face. The former maire clawed his fingers into his white beard, a gesture which perhaps would have felt more satisfying a day ago before most of his beard had been shaved. Then, as if he was aware for the first time of Javert's gaze lingering upon his face, Valjean smiled faintly and patted the Inspector's forearm.

Valjean did short work of rummaging through the saddlebag, but all the way he was struggling to hide the trembling of his hands. He was unable to tear his eyes of the large, jagged wound with the bright pink, swollen flesh which he, of all people, knew indicated a burn. Though in this case it was clearly done to staunch the flow of blood, he could not help but imagine how bad the bleeding truly was. He pressed his eyes shut as he pictured Javert lying helplessly in a pool of blood, then tried to push away the thought. But once this image gone, new ones equally painful filled his mind. Javert lying on his bed, left alone to die. Or Javert in the crowded room of an hospital, but all the same alone. With no one willing to hand a glass of water to him, with nobody left to force an encouraging word on him. As forgotten as any dying convict in the bagne.

Valjean shook his head and did his best to focus on what was actually in front of him. How many of those seemingly prematurely peeled scabs had done so because Javert had strained it, all while he had been blissfully unaware that he had been carrying a package of bandages? He wished to know, but it was too late to matter. With a fresh bandage he redressed the wound, wrapping it and tying it the exact same way as the old one, just maybe a little neater. "Is it too tight?" he asked softly, smoothing down a rebellious section of edge with his fingers.

" _Non_. It is too loose."

And Valjean carefully pulled it tighter, and then a little more, until Javert nodded. Then he tied the knot and secured the ends just like it was before. " _Merci_ ," the policeman said, and with scarcely a pause, "Do you want to hug now?"

"Yes." Valjean got onto his knees and straightened himself, pulling Javert into an embrace. But still, even feeling Javert's warmth against him, his mind was still fixated on the wound. For a man who had not taken a single sick day in three years, what could have happened in Montreuil-sur-Mer to cause this? "What was it?" he asked into Javert's shoulder, "How did it happen?"

"It was a broken bottle," came the response, just like every time he had requested from his chief inspector a report. "I allowed them to do it."

Valjean froze. His arms involuntarily pulled the man between them closer and closer, as his mind struggled and failed to find a meaning other than the one which was brutally clear. "Was it because of me?" he gasped, his voice breaking. He leaned back enough to allow himself to see Javert's face. The mixture of confusion and uncertaintyhe found there was far more eloquent than any words Javert could speak, because in this case, anything other than the most vehement denial was tantamount to a yes. It was a confirmation of Valjean's fear.

He attempted a reassuring smile to give some comfort. "What you have done for me yesterday was an act of kindness," he told the younger man. The rest of his thought hurt too much for him to even manage to voice out loud: an act of kindness should never cost such a price.

Javert gazed back at him intently, almost as if trying to peer at what was going on beyond his eyes. With a hand he cupped Valjean's jaw, thumbing the short white beard through which splashes of his pale skin was visible. Adopting an unusually thoughtful tone, he spoke. "It is what you call kindness only if you are a law-abiding man. If you are a criminal then what I had committed was a grave error in judgment." Men never change. Now that the chains of iron had been severed, the true Jean Valjean - man or beast, criminal or saint, whatever it was buried so deep inside - will re-emerge.

"I will prove myself to you." Where Javert was uncertain, Valjean was full of belief. For the first time in a very very long while, he had felt anger for the right reason; not out of guilt or self-pity, but because someone he cared for had been harmed. Also for the first time his anger did not lead to urge for violence, but the opposite. In this moment, seeing clearly how incomprehension and confusion had clouded the usual steely resolve in Javert's eyes, he felt an obligation to communicate. The convict did not have any feelings worth communicating. The maire did not have self-respect to. But a man, one just like any other man, could not allow his beloved to survive a brush with death and still not know the value of his life. It would be cowardly. He decided that if he had the bravery to punch out the window of a bakery, he should have the bravery to explain himself.

"You know that doctors, as soon as they see my brand, will denounce me. Some may even break the Hippocratic Oath they swore and refuse to treat me." As Javert nodded, he smiled a little wider. "But it is not only doctors, Javert. Anyone who sees my back, assumes that I need to be chained by the neck into the next _Chaîne_ bound for the _bagne_. Even though they do not know me, and they do not care to know me." Valjean offered a trustful smile, nodding encouragingly to the understanding displayed in grey eyes, then he reached for one of the bronze-skinned hands resting on Javert’s knees. "After finally earning my release after nineteen years in the _bagne_ , I spent nights fighting wild dogs for a little place to sleep." Javert flinched and the sudden crease at the corners of his mouth hinted at pain. It made Valjean keep his steady hold, a thumb stroking soothingly the aged scar above a knuckle. "It must have been one of those nights when I started to believe that for the remainder of my life I will always be less than a man. The sight of me always reviled, destined to live alone until God in his mercy deemed that I have repented enough for my life to end. And finally, buried deep underground and a man no more, that is when another living being will appreciate the sight of me, the worms and maggots feeding on my flesh." Valjean swallowed, then gazed into Javert’s eyes with something akin to hope. "But because of you I do not believe that anymore."

Horror which had kept Javert's lips pressed into a flat, tight line disappeared as soon as he narrowed his eyes at the other man. "You are exaggerating, as people always do to the police."

Valjean shook his head slowly, a sad smile still on his lips. "Not a single word of it is an exaggeration, Javert."

"Then you were wrong." Javert raised his chin with an assured pride, as that of a soldier in the face of overwhelming odds. "And I am happy to be the reason why you stop being wrong, Jean Valjean." Only honesty lingered in each word, no arrogance. "This time I will make sure you have a bed and a job, the most important things to live. There should be no need to fight with dogs." He glanced down at their joined hands then added quietly, "If there is a need, I will fight them off for you."

Valjean shifted on his knees so he could lean into Javert’s chest and hide the tears prickling his eyes. They belonged to the broken man he was no more. They shamed the man he was guessing in himself, who was finding strength each passing moment because of the way he was cared for, and deeply accepted. But then, these tears were no weakness, but plain gratitude and they would never make him unworthy of being allowed to rest against a chest holding such unwavering will. He let out a shuddering breath.

"You have impressed your employers today," Javert said suddenly. "You should be proud."

Proud. It was a word certainly known to Jean Valjean, but one which within his psyche, did not fit into sentences this way. And so, calmed and made to feel safe by the arms around him, he asked for clarification. "I should be…" he asked, still in a bit of disbelief, a bit of fearful denial, "... proud? Of myself?"

The confirmation was crisp and clear: " _Oui_." Javert, as always, stood by what he said. To the letter. In fact, what he expressed was simply the self-evident truth.

And so Jean Valjean tried to remember the last time such a request was made of him. Not in the time he was Madeleine; though he had certainly meant well and perhaps even done well, he never allowed anyone close enough. Not during his time as a galley slave, and certainly not during the years when as the man in the family, his best efforts were not enough to provide for the children. It must have been, now that he thought about it, that his father felt this way at least once while teaching his young son the family trade. But his father passed away when he was eight.

"I will do well," he said finally. "I promise." The rubbing of coarse whiskers against his temple let him know that Javert nodded, no drama, just an acknowledgement of the promise and a notification of the expectation that it will be kept. Everything about this interaction was so normal that Valjean understood-- as long as he kept doing well, Javert will take the trouble to say such things to him. Something overwhelming flooded his heart, a feeling which words could not convey. He pressed a kiss onto Javert's throat and when the reaction - a soft hum - sounded pleasant to his ears he lifted his head and started kissing the face before him. Spontaneously, without particular care of where on the face his lips fell, because his intention was to cover the entire face. And as he did so, Javert watched him, even turning and tilting his head minutely to make that possible, not giving Valjean a chance to get close to either ear.

After some time Javert finally voiced his observation, "You are kissing me."

"Yes." Valjean smiled against the growing stubble, delighted by Javert's endless capacity to astonish him.

"It is what people do in dark alleys, and they get robbed while doing it.”

“They do." He leaned back, his eyes lowered for a moment as he rubbed his beard, then cupped the whiskers on one side of Javert’s face, feeling the coarse strands poking between his fingers. “But right now, I do it to express… I hope the same thing you feel when you ask to hug. When you decided to rescue me.”

Javert eyed him calmly, his demeanor almost as strict as if taking into consideration all presented evidence before filling a form. Then he lifted Valjean from under the arms with a mighty heave, and with his stern expression shifting into serenity, he tilted his head to place the fleeting, awkward mimicry of a peck on Valjean's lips.

Next thing the ex-convict knew, was that he had buried his fingers in Javert's nape, in what he hoped was a tender hold and not a grip. He was making the kiss linger by nudging slowly at the taller man's lips, but his mind was so clouded - so filled with the urge to feel and make feel all he imagined for years - that he was unable to restrain himself. Or so he thought. But instead of nibbling at the stubborn lips to make his way, he teased and hinted a smile; he hummed in satisfaction rather than grunting. He licked so lightly as to become mad. And all was right. So, when Javert's lips eventually parted, he was rewarded with absolute oblivion.

Valjean closed his eyes as Javert tasted him; still encouraging the man to go further, and succeeding. He was drunk of dazzling joy and his heart began to pound so hard that his scarf and jacket became uncomfortably constraining. He blindly loosened both and simply forgot about them. But too soon he needed to breathe, and reluctantly stepped back. Valjean opened his eyes to a watching Javert, as calm and composed as ever, if not for that faint gleam in his eyes which assuredly meant nothing. Even so, Valjean was still able to remember the way Javert gave only the entirety of his attention or none at all, and thus he was painfully aware of being the center of focus.

He raised a hand to wipe his mouth, but in truth he was only concealing to what extent he was biting in regret on his lower lip. He fought the need of squeezing his eyes shut by forcing himself to remember his own vow of bravery.

"Was that... uh... pleasurable for you? As it was for me?"

"Pleasureable?" The police chief's lips skewed into an expression of distaste and he was blunt in his denial: "That is not what I was trying to express."

"I know." Valjean was equally quick to reassure. The miraculous feeling of security, of knowing exactly what Javert meant, was not lost to him. "But it can also be pleasureable… I want to make the time you spend with me pleasureable." He swallowed thickly and added, after silence sapped his initial courage, "If not pleasurable, at least... pleasant."

He waited impatiently while Javert seemingly took his time to ponder the question. Quite some seconds had passed when Javert let out a satisfied humph before telling him, "I like to watch you carry things."

Valjean chuckled warmly, the previous awkwardness immediately forgotten. Surely there must be a way to make clear to a man with Javert's level of intelligence the difference between work and pleasure, and he happily, even eagerly, set off on his search for it. But hastily Javert corrected his statement, appearing more than a bit flustered as he did so: "Not a cart! Lighter things."

“Oh…?” Valjean followed the younger man’s gaze just to find it fastened on his own chest. With his scarf nowhere to be found, the collar of his shirt was now dangling wide open, granting an indecent view of not just a patch of flushed skin but even some chest hair. He wondered what, exactly, was Javert looking at and was about to chide himself for his fanciful conclusions when Javert spoke up in a tone which sounded a lot like... disappointment.

“ _Oui_ , now no one orders you to carry things anymore.”

In shocked disbelief Valjean uttered, "Oh!" And it was his turn to speak in haste: "You still can!" He felt his own cheeks burn as he nodded vehemently, and wondered for a passing moment whether Javert was so confused only because steam was coming out of his ears.

“Hmm…?”

It was such an odd sound to come out of Javert, so vague and at turns hesitant, curious, and encouraging. Or perhaps, as Valjean suspected, he had lost his mind. But in Javert's narrowed eyes he recognized the focus of a hunter, reminiscent of the intense gaze the feared Police Chief of Montreuil-sur-Mer adopted unfailingly in his patrols through disrupted streets. Right then, as a humble tallow candle shed its flickering light on a dingy room, they stared quietly at each other and they knew.

Valjean hid his face when he got out of his shirt, ashamed that he could not also shed his marked skin, and by the time he looked up again he saw that Javert's searching eyes had locked onto something. The table Vidocq had sat at not long before. He left the bed and made his way to it, the entire time aware of watchful eyes on his broad back marred with scars.

It was a shabby kitchen table cut in half, the rough side of it shoved against the wall, and its second pair of legs nailed in lopsided, not completely flush with the edge. A few thick planks of chestnut darkened by years of use, worthless and weighing little more than straw to Jean le Cric. Valjean picked it up with both his hands then turned back to search Javert's face for a reaction. But Javert was no longer seated on the bed anymore; he stood there, watching, as Valjean hoisted the table higher, first from his hips up to his shoulders, then all the way over his head.

Valjean stood thus for a moment, exposed and very aware of the eyes roaming over his body. Feeling awkward and nevertheless, in awed disbelief that Javert was stepping towards him. All the way until their feet collided under the shelter provided by the old table.

A lifetime ago, Jean Valjean had dreamt to sit in an open field, under the shadow of a tree, and to shake hands with a young man he did not yet know. He had aspired to return to known lands and to show this young man the craft which gave meaning to his hands. He had longed to return to his family and yet for that man to stay. In his dream, he was free and redeemed.

Now, in a small room and under a handful of badly nailed planks, he was about to leave for the slums of Paris and about to learn a trade he once thought awful. Even so, he was free and with a chance for redemption.

There was only one reason to keep dreaming. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He dreamed that the man never known to lie had meant what he said not long ago. He dreamed that Javert was not passing through, but had chosen to remain by his side. He dreamed that a miracle made him worthy of what was freely given to him. He dreamed he was able to give something valuable in return. He swore that Javert would be his family.                                                                                                                         

A thumb rubbed his beard and Valjean forced his eyelids open to meet Javert's burning gaze. Jean Valjean never thought that his body, a sharp tool that served him well, could ever be a subject of fascination. There was nothing in him worthwhile to be looked at twice. And yet there was Javert, who was making him feel alive, almost pleasing under his skin worn by suffering.

Huge hands wrapped around the bulging muscular masses on his bare shoulder, and inquisitive fingertips fell into the crevices between them. They closed around the well-formed biceps, only able to match just over half the their circumference. Rubbing, at times even squeezing lightly, to test whether they were strained. “How did you grow these eating only beans?” The voice speaking into his ear was astoundingly deep. It made Valjean's mouth feel dry, too dry to find anything to swallow.

Long arms encircled his torso and pulled him into an embrace. Then slowly, deliberately, Javert tested different stances - angling his upper body? taking a step back then leaning forward? - before parting his feet until their faces became level. Seemingly pleased with his new found solution, Javert first ran a slow hand over Valjean's chest, then got closer so as to brush his face against it. Valjean could not tell whether he was feeling lips or whiskers on his skin. He did not care. Then the attention migrated over to the muscles near his ribs, calloused fingers stroking tirelessly the patches of smooth skin there. It tickled, just a little bit. As Valjean's breathing grew increasingly heavy, the table above his head became as light as air itself.

And as if aware of a change, Javert glanced up at Valjean's face, and touched one of the cheeks which were flushed. He must have been pleased by the warmth, for he held Valjean's head and planted a small kiss there. it was neat, too neat, fit for a bow to be place on top, and Valjean turned to make it messy beyond recognition. When it ended, Javert spoke again through heavy breaths, "This is difficult to explain, Jean Valjean. To spend time doing something which is not a duty. But something about you makes this not difficult at all."

A lump had settled into Valjean's throat, and even if he could find the right words to answer, he knew himself unable to utter them. He watched dumbfounded as Javert lowered himself then continued whatever he was doing, for Valjean could not see it. It felt tickling and patient, caring in a way he would never manage to match. His hands were now slickened with sweat, his grip over the slippery table, unsteady. And suddenly, he felt a touch on his nipple, moist and warm, which made his knees go weak. He gasped quite loudly, causing Javert to stop and to look up at him.

"It is past midnight," the Chief Inspector said calmly. But as Valjean kept staring at him wide eyed and still breathing heavily, he added with a slightly stern tone: "We must not cause a noise complaint."

It was unmistakably a warning, and yet it must have been one which Javert did not feel too strongly about, if that were possible, because as soon as he was done speaking the policeman went right back to what he was doing before. Exactly what made Valjean gasp in the first place. But as he bit his lip to stifle another gasp, it got worse. Javert must have liked the reactions and was now making much more use of his lips and tongue, leaving behind patches of moisture where sweat and saliva mixed together. Left with little choice Valjean guessed a safe moment to open his mouth and to give a warning.

"If you don't stop, I will drop the table," he rasped.

"The police cannot be threatened, Monsieur," Javert retorted smoothly.

Valjean had no response to this. This might have been what prompted the policeman to pause whatever he was doing to carefully adjust the bandage on Valjean's shoulder. "If you drop the table we will need to pay for it. Then we cannot both go to Paris." That would be 'no', then. As if the matter was settled, Javert squatted back down; the focus of his attention being too low for even his split stance. Soon Valjean found himself rocking on the balls of his feet to keep his balance while restraining himself from moving more than that.

But the hands were still moving, lower and lower, one of them past Valjean's hip. He jumped when suddenly a hot and solid palm cupped him through his trousers, where he was being restrained painfully. This did not help. He was too close to Javert now as to see his hand, all the more disquieting when he could feel so distinctly its minute movements, while being too unstable to do anything but lean into the man in front of him for support. And he nearly fell when Javert suddenly rose to speak into his ear, "Does _this_ " - a small squeeze made him clench his teeth and made clear beyond all doubt what was being referred to - "happen when you work?"

Valjean shook his head - "No, no" - he could not even manage a chuckle though he wanted to, because his jaws were too tight. "It is because of you." And this got the man nodding again, that now familiar scrub of the whiskers, a sensation which quickly becoming intoxicating. His nose had gotten used to the camphor and he couldn't smell it anymore. There was only the scent of the man himself.

"Then I will take care of it. As you know... I am a responsible man." There was a gravelly undertone, a low vibration like the purr of a cat in the voice. As for the comment itself... Valjean no longer trusted his own ears. Javert may as well be reciting to him from a timetable, it would make little difference.

Then Javert rose, and it must have been nearly to full height because suddenly Valjean found a chest in front of him, for him to lean into. One which he needed very badly. Also the strong arm around him, securing him, keeping him on his wobbling legs. He pressed his mouth into the skin, fearful that if he did not, he would wake the entire hallway. Because at some point his trousers had already been worked open and now they lay in a tangle at his feet. But the hand was still there, and still moving.

"I am going to drop it--" he warned repeatedly into the chest, in his euphoria his teeth bumping into and scraping against the warm skin as the hand worked him efficiently. Too efficiently, because he wanted this to last longer. Much longer. But as the inexperienced man he was, pleasure took Valjean unawares. Thus, he was suddenly too stunned as to react to sensations that should be known, yet were new. Too shaken by what was intended to be a quick release of tension, yet which became deeply moving.

As soon as Valjean regained his senses, he tried to reach and clean the mess he just made, but was pulled into Javert's embrace once again, spent and limp, and encouraged to rest. He realized then that at some point he had managed to partially drop the table onto Javert's shoulder, and that the man did not seem to care.

“Jean Valjean.”

“Mmm...?”

Valjean's rich voice lingered softly into the heavy breathing which filled the room. A nearby door shut abruptly and startled him to look in that direction, but Javert tightened their embrace. Thus, unexpectedly, not just that door but the walls and even the table being kept upright by Javert's head melted away, forgotten.

"You told me to wait and marry someone I love. But you are a man and I cannot marry a man."

Valjean tilted back his head to gaze into Javert's eyes. He was barely able to believe his ears, and yet the honesty he could read in those grey eyes awoke in him a sadness he could not face. “It is the law that a man can only marry a woman," he said. "We cannot change it.”

“Good.”

This one word reaction, so inappropriately terse in this moment, caused Valjean to laugh despite himself. “No, Javert," he chided good-naturedly. "It is not good.”

Javert pondered this until understanding flashed in his eyes. "The law is always good," he concluded. "Except where it applies to you."

Still in their own little world they gladly learned to fit into each other's arms -- or arm, in the case of Javert, since one of Valjean's was still holding the table. Soothed by the tranquility Valjean gave in to the demands of his body and closed his eyes, just for a few seconds.

"But marriage is a legal contract to require love and I would feel more pleasure if we could sign one." Javert declared, quite suddenly. Valjean blinked his eyes until he woke himself up and still could not find the right response for a while.

"No, Javert," he finally said. "Love can never be required by the law. And because of that, it can never be disallowed by the law either."

" _Oui_ ," Javert announced his agreement after some contemplation. Then he asked, in a complete change of topic, "Are you hungry?"

Thus Valjean had to think whether aside from being exhausted, he was also hungry. "Yes," he said.

"Then I will go purchase some bread and cheese from the innkeeper," Javert declared as he slowly as surely lowered both Valjean and the table down to ground.

Once the man who was technically still the chief inspector of Montreuil-sur-Mer had made his plan, there was no talking him out of it. Valjean's offers to help with the clean up were rebuffed. When the policeman returned with the food, the two of them ate at the small table in quiet companionship, both standing because both refused to take the sole seat. Afterwards Valjean collapsed into the bed, and laid back into waiting arms after Javert reached across to pinch out the wick of the candle.

"The first diligence to Paris departs at quarter to six." The gentle rustle of the blanket punctuated his sentence. " _Bonne nuit_ , Valjean."

"Goodnight, Javert."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hundred Thousand Sons of Saint Louis:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hundred_Thousand_Sons_of_Saint_Louis
> 
> Impériale:The seat on the back of the roof.  
> https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diligence#/media/File:Gotthardpostkutsche.jpg
> 
> 40f coin:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_franc#/media/File:France_1807-A_40_Francs.jpg
> 
> Hippocratic Oath in France  
> http://www.larousse.fr/encyclopedie/divers/Serment_dHippocrate/143995


	64. Epilogue

The young man who in his rush downstairs almost crashed dangerously into Jean Valjean did not stop to apologize. Instead, he continued bundling down the steep and narrow steps until he reached the lower floor, at which point the screamed abuses came. Inspector Javert reach back and laid a hand on Valjean's arm in silent encouragement for his struggling companion to keep climbing. Then he poked his head down the stairwell and declared in response that they were in fact in a public throughway and the young man was the one in the wrong. The narrow, peeling walls amplified his voice and sent the guilty party scurrying.

Turning once more to Valjean, Javert acknowledged with a suffering grimace that this sort of unpleasantry was simply a part of life in Paris. The downtrodden parts, not the glamorous parts once traveled by the rich businessman known as Madeleine. The older man smiled from where he was, clinging to the railing, and followed.

Soon they reached the third landing, where Javert stopped and waited for the other man to slowly climb the last few steps. He reached out once more, this time to brush off some dust on Valjean's jacket, where it had accumulated in the folds of the ill-fitting garment throughout their past days and nights of constant travel. This scrutiny seemed to have a psychological effect on the ex-convict, who took off his cap before stepping up to the door and noticing the small metal sign nailed into the cracked wood. He had not asked where he was being led, and now he gazed at the letters scratched into the metal and filled with coal dust.

It read: De Val.

Before he could comprehend why his family's name was on the door Javert's fist had already crashed into the wood with a thud, and sound, movement, could be heard heading towards them.

The apron-clad old woman, nearly white-headed and wrinkled, who opened the door first saw Javert and beamed in delight -- until her eyes found the other man, then her smile froze. Even the hand she was wiping on her apron froze too.

After a long moment, the equally wrinkled, white-bearded man whispered, "Jeanne, my sister."

"Jeannot (little Jean)" she responded, putting her hands on him with some initial hesitation which did not last even a second. Then she rushed through the door and threw her arms around him. "Jeannot…" she called again, sniffling through her growing smile as her hand cupped his nape in a gesture not made less familiar by the lost years. "On my way back from Arras I thought of all the things I will never get to do for you, or to tell to you. To be a sister to you."

Jean Valjean had little explanation to offer. "I did not find you earlier because…" he said, sobbing, "I could not ask you to take a criminal into your home."

"Nonsense!" The single sharpest word she had uttered, and still it was much softened by her tears. "You tried to help your widowed sister keep her children fed. Stealing is wrong and you should serve your sentence. But after that --" she whimpered, almost pleading, "you should come home."

The man who had lost half of his life to the _bagne_ and then on the run, nodded in her embrace.

Half a step away, Inspector Javert observed the scene unfolding in front of him with consternation. They just stood there on the landing, swaying to and fro almost as if they were drunk. Distracted fingers scratched at his whisker as he contemplated what to do, and it was in this moment that a voice from inside the small apartment alerted him to the fact that Jeanne was not home alone. Before he had time to react, pattering footsteps approached until he glimpsed emerging from behind the tangle of legs first the wide smile of a rag doll, and then that of the girl who was clutching it: Cosette.

Now it was Javert's turn to be surprised. He watched with a scowl as the tiny girl peered with some suspicion at Valjean, whose face was not visible to her. But it seemed that the decision to act came much quicker to her than to the Inspector, because after she smiled up at Javert, then looked at the hug, she pushed her doll against Jeanne's leg and grabbed a fistful of Javert's trousers. She tugged and tugged insistently until Javert yielded, then claimed her place in the hug with reckless abandon.

Javert hesitated but, still feeling the tug on his pants, extended his arms and closed them around both Valjean and Jeanne. A tangible warmth flooded him despite the thick coat he wore, and it seemed to him that he was not being rejected; if anything, the way Valjean reached up to hold his arm seemed to communicate the opposite. He leaned in closer. As the rocking kept going on and on, and no-one seemed willing to move otherwise, a very confused Inspector Javert announced, "We must clear the hallway!" and herded the entire hug through the open door.

Amidst laughter, sniffles, and Cosette's giggle, Jeanne wiped her face with her apron and patted Javert's arm. "Oh! I am too happy, look at me, I am upsetting the Inspector." Unaware of the confused glances both men were directing towards Cosette, she continued, "Now that you are here, both of you, you are staying for dinner!"

Javert was gazing past the woman quite intently and did not answer. “Smoke." he notified tersely.

"Oh!!" Jeanne turned with alarm to her smoking pot. "Cosette, did you add water to the soup?" With wide-eyed innocence the little girl shook her head vehemently in denial, her long braid swinging side to side. "My dear, you know to do so much I still forget you are only seven!" The girl squeezed the doll to her chest and nodded.

"Go play for a few minutes!" Jeanne called over her shoulder as she hurried to salvage the situation.

Now given license to roam, Cosette promptly turned her attention back to Javert. Outstretching both arms - and doll - towards the impossibly tall man, she held his gaze until he stooped down and lifted her to his chest. "Did you come to arrest Aunt Jeanne?" she inquired, her arms naturally looping around his neck. "Because you should not, she is very nice to me and not at all like Madame Thénardier."

As the child assaulted him with the plea "please, Monsieur l'Inspecteur" repeatedly, Javert looked in exasperation first towards Jeanne then towards Valjean, who was still too busy wiping his face to help. In the end he replied succinctly, "Child, that is not why that woman was arrested."  

"But, why not?" intoned the child, far too quickly for her to have given any thought to what was said.

Javert was relieved when a hoarse laugh stopped the child. "No Cosette," Valjean said, "he is not here to arrest Aunt Jeanne."

Wide inquisitive eyes gazed across to the man who spoke -- now that she sat on Javert's arm, she could see the face of Valjean for the first time. "You are Monsieur Madeleine! But you look different…" her gaze wandered until it rose to his bare scalp and she gasped. "Why did you lose your hair?"

"My previous hair… got very dirty and now my new hair is growing." Silently encouraged by Valjean, she reached up and felt with her finger the short spikey strands already poking up. Thus convinced of his identity, the girl stretched out her arms towards him, and no words were needed for Javert to grant her her wish. For the inspector was only too eager to get the doll's ticklish frilly calico dress away from his neck.

"Cosette, I have a new name now. It is Jean."

"Jean?" the girl repeated in awe, mauled over it as if performing some kind of evaluation. "I like it, Monsieur Jean!"

Though his eyes were still red and puffy, Valjean gave her a gentle smile. "I am here because I am Aunt Jeanne's brother… Now Cosette it is your turn to tell me, did your _maman_ Fantine leave you here with Aunt Jeanne?"

The coal stove jutting out along the wall was in the exact position to prevent Valjean from noticing the way his sister had lifted a hand to her mouth in horror at his question; not that this mattered much because Cosette's answer said it all. "Maman is watching over me, and over my Papa too. That is what Aunt Jeanne said."

For a moment everything seemed to go silent, even the sound of ladle scraping across the bottom of a pot disappeared, and Valjean just held onto the girl for a moment, trying to gather his emotions. He was surprised to remember the exact words his sister Jeanne had told him when their own mother died. Word for word they were nearly the same as those which Cosette just spoke. And already in a weakened emotional state, with guilt heavy on his mind, he could not manage much more than to hug the child closer while he berated himself for the way he sent an ailing woman out of her home, to start a new life in a city where she knew no one. But if he had learned anything today, it was that his regret made nothing better, his hiding from his responsibilities made nothing better. So he said, softly, "We will go together to Mass on Sunday and ask for God to watch over your mother, as she is doing for you. Will you like that?"  

"To the church as we did in Montreuil, when you still had hair?" Cosette barely waited for him to nod before smiling widely as she wrapped her arms around Valjean's neck, caring little about Catherine's tickling woolen hair. “ _Maman_ told me that I have no parents like other kids, but I have to be strong. Can I also pray to God so I will be stronger?"

"Yes, Cosette we will do that." Pained by the innocence he could see in her eyes, and by his knowledge that she will feel the loss again when she finally understands the concept of death, years later, he told her, "Even though you have no parents you can have me… and Aunt Jeanne." He glanced at Jeanne, who had stepped away from the pot to see them around the stove. When she nodded in understanding and consent, he could see to what extent Jeanne was moved.

Having stood silently all this time, Javert now cleared his throat awkwardly. "if someone is not nice to you, you can find me," he told the girl.

"And you will arrest them?"

The Inspector scowled as he considered her for a moment. "Sometimes I will," he drawled. These three words were sufficient to make the girl grin ear to ear, showing the many toothless gaps on her gums where her baby teeth had already been lost. Happy is the child who is still too young to know the difference between sometimes and always. Beloved is the child who believes she lives in a world where everyone who is not nice to her will get taken away, and by not clarifying Javert had unknowingly managed the first fatherly act in his life. Yet another truth little Cosette will only come to know in time is that love, not biological relation, was what makes for a family. Willingness to be a responsible parent. Willingness to be raised as a beloved child. And in this humble home they have it all.

Jeanne, watching all this from afar, allowed the almost sacred peace to linger for some seconds before announcing too joyously, "Dinner is ready!" Like a shepherd she ushered everyone to the table, which she had set for four. The plates, pewter utensils, bowls, and even the chairs were mismatched, speaking to the fact that each little piece was purchased one at a time, the proud reward of her meager savings. Just for those few days in a year when all her children, and grandchildren, return to dine at her table. Now as she filled each bowl with rich onion soup, making up for the small portions of soup with extra bread and extra large helpings of thinly sliced _comté_ , she dreamed that she will need to buy three more sets before the upcoming holiday Pentecost.

She double checked that all was ready before taking her seat, where with a smile of pride and gratitude she asked her brother to lead them in prayer. And feeling raw emotion well up in his throat, Valjean took a moment to recall a beautiful prayer he once heard, and which he had long ago written off as one he would never be given reason to utter.

"For" -he cleared his throat- "... for food in a world where many walk in hunger; for faith in a world where many walk in fear; for family in a world where many walk alone; we give you thanks, O Lord. Amen."

"Please, eat! I hope it is not too burnt." After everyone assured her it was not, the meal began in silence, with each embroiled in their own thoughts. She left her spoon forgotten as she studied her brother across the table, marveling at how his physique had gotten bulkier, even though his cheeks were still almost as hollow as they were back in those days when they had to go to sleep with little more than lukewarm water to fill their stomachs. It was a blessing for her to watch him sate his hunger with the humble meal she was able to provide, and to learn that her little brother had grown strong enough and wise enough to display the kindness she always saw in him was a blessing. His gaze when it lingered over her face was not sullen and gloomy as her last memory of him, but gleaming with quiet joy. And this in turn gave her joy.

In contrast Valjean observed the apartment, taking note of the discolored stock pot and the single sprig of parsley sitting in a cup. The bunch of laurel and the only glass jar, filled with linden blossom, hanging near a window. Also the two small beds separated only by privacy curtains and what looked like a wash tub crammed into a corner. Everything confirmed that she did not lack for basic needs, but at the same time, she could not be said to have much extra, not nearly enough to show for the hard life she was now nearing the end of. Jean Valjean made a silent pledge to change this.

Their solemn silence had an unexpected effect on the girl whose head was barely above the table. Distracted adults meant opportunity to play at the dinner table, and all the good manners she was taught went out the window as she ran sticky little fingers across her plate to roll up a small ball out of bread crumbs. This she placed into Catherine's stump hand which she in turn directed up to the doll's mouth. Quickly she noticed the judgmental gaze of neighboring Javert, who until now had been more than content to focus on what he considered the only proper task to perform when a host announced dinner: to eat. He swallowed spoonfuls of the soup with a single-mindedness bordering on intensity. But now he stopped. Cosette smiled up at him.

With both hands she lifted her doll to him and waved it side to side. Crumbs rained down onto the calico dress. "This is Catherine," she introduced. The doll was noticeably more patched up than the one Javert remembered from Montreuil-sur-Mer, but its name was the same. It had provided companionship to its loving owner over the past difficult months, and it carried the scars to prove it. "Do you like her?" Cosette asked sweetly.

Bewildered by the inquiry the inspector looked from the large expectant eyes of the doll to the large expectant eyes of the girl. "As long as she is not a thief, I like her," he offered. A sudden clang made him turn his head -- Valjean had struck his spoon against his bowl.

The former _maire_ gestured in apology as he contemplated Javert's statement. What had initially sounded like a thinly veiled comment at him was now clear to have been meant literally, and tempted by the obliviousness written all over Javert's face, he asked in jest, "But what if Catherine had traveled on Cosette's arms past the speed limit? Would you still like her?"

At this Jeanne laughed heartily, reaching out to softly pat Javert's forearm in a gesture of familiarity which shocked her brother. The expression on Javert's face only made her laugh harder. It continued until Valjean explained lovingly, "It was a joke." With nothing more than a nod Javert turned his attention back to his soup.

But now that the silence had been broken, Valjean finally gave voice to the questions bouncing in his head: “Jeanne… How did you meet Cosette?”

With a soft sigh she replied, "It was because of Monsieur Chabouillet. When his men discovered that Cosette had been orphaned, he called me and gave me a letter of recommendation to get temporary custody."

"What? You do not meet the legal requirements for adoption.*" Javert set down his spoon with a frown. "The board of guardians at the orphanage should have never given you custody of a child you were not related to."

Wrinkles deepened across Jeanne's forehead, lines etched there by a lifetime of worry. “Yes. Now I suspect it was a mistake," she explained vaguely, and spoke her next sentence to her brother's eyes, gently like it was more of a question than a statement. "Both Monsieur Chabouillet and Capitaine Thiérry before him, believed Cosette to be my niece.”

“Ah!” Across the table Valjean stiffened, his eyes suddenly wide as saucers in disbelief.

"Valjean is not Cosette's father by law." The Inspector stated.

“Nor by blood!” Added Valjean hastily, casting a look loaded with horror towards the Inspector.

“But love does not require a certificate, and Valjean spent time with her, even if it was not his duty. I will speak to Monsieur Chabouillet tomorrow." Javert continued, and then as if the matter was settled, returned once more to spooning burnt soup into his mouth.

Jeanne looked over at Cosette, who was staring at all of them at turns with wide, bright eyes; the old woman smiled. “I feel the same way about her.” She exchanged an uneasy glance with her brother and then studied the thoughtful expression of Javert.

By the time they finished their meal, the silence and darkness had taken over the streets and the conversation had declined somewhat. Fully satiated, the child swayed slightly on her chair, holding Catherine with drooping eyelids. Jeanne reached for her upper arm and rubbed it gently.

"Cosette, it is time for bed." The girl rubbed one eye before turning to face the unexpected guests with some confusion. "Do you want to share a bed with me?" Continued the old woman while extending an expectant arm toward the girl.

"Yes!" Cosette agreed enthusiastically and turned for the bed, but was held back. "Remember to say goodnight, _ma chérie_ (my sweetheart)," Jeanne prompted.

Obediently if somewhat timidly, the little girl walked back to her and presented her forehead to receive a goodnight kiss. Then she raised Catherine, who also received a loud kiss on her rag face. "Now, go..." A little push in the back was all that the girl needed to understand and stand before Valjean with her head bowed slightly. But the man, still inexperienced in some situations, looked to his sister for clarification. Jeanne's smile was a patient one as she nodded encouragingly at him. And the hand of Valjean was unexpectedly delicate when it circled the head of the girl to draw her to him; his kiss with his eyes closed was slow and heartfelt blessing as a father. Jeanne's lower lip trembled, until she saw him try to smooth the folds of Catherine's dress with those of his rough fingers, then, as if feeling that he had not enough, brushed off the few pieces of remnant crumbs from the doll's face.

"Do not forget Monsieur Javert, Cosette," she urged. But the wide smile of the girl informed her that was something she had no intention of doing. She approached the Inspector quietly, her slow movements designed to grab attention without putting on alert; it was what she practiced with the neighbor's cat. When she presented her forehead to him as before, he frowned but compliantly bent down, nearly in half, to place a quick peck on the girl almost without taking aim. However when she then presented the face of the doll, Javert squeezed his face together until it looked like he was about to eat his own lips. But whether the death glare he directed at Valjean for using up all conceivable alternatives to a kiss went truly unnoticed or willfully ignored, Cosette rose to her tiptoes to lift the doll closer. Clearly there were no alternatives… yet still, even with his lips already parted and hovering just a centimeter above the doll's face, Javert paused, perhaps waiting in vain for a last minute miracle. When nothing came, he shut his eyes - for a diametrically different reason than Valjean - and blindly left a peck on the doll. While everyone's eyes were still on him he recoiled, then paused dramatically as yet another expression, this time of disgust, overtook his face. Frowning, he rubbed his tongue against his teeth in frustration then muttered an apology before sticking it out and picking at it with his fingers. As everyone laughed and as his attempts did not meet any success, with a dignified humph he pointedly unfolded his napkin and wiped off his tongue on it. Finally, finally he rid himself of the piece of fuzz on his tongue and he was pleased.

By this point Cosette had giggled away all her tiredness. Jeanne saw that Valjean was still struggling with his laughter and so rose from her seat to lead Cosette. "She will sleep in my bed tonight, and the two of you take the other." She said over her shoulder before disappearing behind the curtains.

\---

Jeanne returned to find the table already cleared of dishes. She shook her head, amused, and went to the sink, where she proceeded to pull the dishes out from the hands of her guests primly. The only help she consented to was for Valjean to sort the washed utensils and for Javert to place the bowls into the upper cabinet.

"Thank you for the bed," the inspector told her. "It's helpful to our finances."

A spoon escaped of her soapy hands as she tried to assimilate the concept that both men shared a budget. She cleared her throat. "I do not comprehend how you are here," she told her brother. "But the fact that Javert is with you tells me it is legal, and the rest I do not care. Both of you can stay as long as you want. Cosette is very happy you are here." Indeed, the girl who was singing softly paused to confirm, "Yes!"

"I have a job now, it does not pay well but it is a job. Here in the city." Valjean wrapped an arm around her shoulders and placed a kiss on her cheek. "Thank you, sister." For the second time in less than a minute, something slipped through the fingers of the woman.

"Now get out my way, the both of you," she whispered, with happy tears in her voice.

Eventually Jeanne finished sizing the clay stove which prepared the coffee and turned; she saw the two of them standing together near the table, fatigue clearly visible in their countenances. "Get some rest! _Bonne nuit_." She smiled nicely and retreated behind the curtains.

Javert gave Valjean a nod then commenced taking off his jacket and pants, his haste surely motivated at least in part by the fact that the stove was now off, and the temperature falling. He was up to his chin under the blanket when Valjean was still tugging at the laces of his shoes lethargically.

"It is time to go to bed," the Inspector said in reminder as he scooted further against the cold wall to make more space for Valjean on the narrow bed. But the whispered response he received was not the simple agreement he had expected.

"It is odd in my sister's home..."

In his disbelief Javert turned to face Valjean and even rose up to his elbow. He tried to whisper. He failed. "For you to sleep in this bed with me here is just as legal as when you did it back in Toulon and Aix." How much more obvious could this get, for a former _maire_ nonetheless?

Blushing, Valjean somewhat apologetically shrugged, and eyed the chair against the wall as if contemplating the possibility as he stepped out from his suspenders. " _Non_!" Javert blurted with a vague hint of distress lingering in his voice. "How can you even think to do that when it is so cold?" Fortunately for him this was more than enough to convince Valjean, who suddenly rediscovered his nimbleness and quickly took his place under the covers. Long legs unfolded to free his side of the mattress, and immediately feet and ankles peeked out of the covers and off the mattress at the other end of the bed, one which was made for a family whose men were always shorter. Javert muttered under his breath as he made to fix the blanket by kicking it with practiced motions.

"Get comfortable, Javert." Valjean urged softly, and got onto his own side for Javert to lay his back, then pushed his thick calves under the taller man's now raised knees. Now Valjean was perfectly positioned to nestle against the crook of Javert's neck, while the policeman's arm naturally looped around the former convict's thick torso until the huge hand laid on the scarred back, sheltering it. Both were comfortable.

With their most pressing concern solved, Javert extinguished the candle and they lay in the soft moonlight, and in the soft sound of Cosette's voice, still singing her small repertoire of songs on and off. As if obeying an impulse that he could not restrain, Valjean reached up and stroked Javert's overgrown whisker with the back of his hand.

"Hmm?"

"You brought me home", said the ex-convict, his shaking voice trailing off into the warm air between them. He felt the jaw move against his forehead, clenching. The policeman was frowning.

"Where else would I bring you?" Completely oblivious, slightly frustrated, slightly confused. Exactly the Javert Valjean felt he was getting to know. And starting to love in a different way than he did all these years. Valjean stammered over the beginning of a sentence. His mind failed to put into words the magnitude of the gift which Javert had given him today. From the moment he woke, every moment, every breath was a gift. Words was never something he was too great at, and it would seem that Javert was not the best at intuiting was was meant by them… so he responded literally, "Nowhere else."

" _Oui_." Pleased. It was a distinct emotion he could now hear in Javert's tone. But what happened next took his breath away -- an arm snaked around him, fingers held his chin firmly and tilted it up, uncompromising yet trustworthy. Then a fleeting peck on his lips, whiskers against his cheeks, and the hand was gone again. " _Bonne nuit_ , Valjean."

A rustling sound from the other bed reminded Valjean once more of Jeanne's and Cosette's presence, just at the moment when he honestly would have forgotten it. He rubbed small circles into Javert's chest and shoulders and closed his eyes, even though he doubted sleep would come tonight. Clearly he was not alone, as Cosette changed from singing to speaking.

"Did you like... Monsieur Jean? … Me too! …  What about Monsieur l'Inspecteur? Oh… why not?"

Valjean felt Javert tense. In a hushed tone the policeman inquired, a bit nervously, "Is she talking to... the doll?" Smiling into Javert's shirt, he nodded.

"Are you a thief? Even if you are a thief, I like you!"

And now Valjean's smile became a chuckle he muffled against the shirt, as he soothed the man who was about to react to what was said. "It is time to sleep," he urged in an intimate whisper.

"This is sensible, unlike your joke."

But Cosette was not finished, and she continued slowly and patiently, "Monsieur l'Inspecteur likes thieves too, he just says he doesn't, his doll is a thief."

And this time, Valjean tensed. But immediately the hand on his back pulled him closer, and a husky voice muttered, "As you said, it is time to sleep."

"Yes," Valjean whispered. He felt the man beneath him relax; Jeanne's voice was heard telling Cosette to hush, and even before she was finished, Javert's breathing had already slowed. As if the man could fall asleep simply by deciding to.

Valjean closed his eyes and smiled into the darkness.

\---

“Monsieur Jean snores loudly.”

“Shhh, Cosette! They travelled from very, very far, and they are tired.”

Warmth.

The voices told Javert's half-conscious mind he must wake, the warmth urged him to stay. The black colored privacy curtain blocked his view of the room, and thanks to his impressive arm span, he was able to spread it open enough to peer out, without disturbing the man tangled up against his body.

Cosette was gulping down her breakfast while behind her, Jeanne was absorbed securing one of the girl's long braids with a blue ribbon. Javert reasoned that his presence at the small table would only upset a well-established morning routine, and he watched for a moment until Jeanne, apparently done with Cosette's hair, stepped aside to take a sip of her drink. The corners of her eyes crinkled over the rim of her cup when she met his eyes, and with a broad, reassuring smile she calmly gestured with a downward wave of her hand, clearly meaning for him to stay down. He shrugged and was about to turn away when a high pitched giggle stopped him, and he saw a tiny finger pointed accusingly at him, waving up and down. It was Cosette's, of course. The child was muffling a giggle into her tiny hand, her eyes shining in delight at the prospect of having caught Javert in the act of peeping. Horror settled into the Chief Inspector's chest as he came to the realization that he had been declared guilty, and by continuing to watch he was hurting his own case. Hurriedly he went back into hiding.

Not many minutes could have passed, for Javert was not yet back asleep, when soft steps approached the curtain and the doll Catherine was thrust through it, by a small arm. As Javert gaped at this sight Cosette's face came through also, smiling at him. But that was all the acknowledgment he received, as the girl placed the doll onto the open part of the pillow, framed by the top of Valjean's shaved head and the side of Javert's face. The child laid the doll on its back, adjusted its legs to bend around Valjean's head, and straightened the dress into Javert's ear.

"What are you doing?" whispered Javert, who actually managed to keep his voice low due to his unwillingness to wake Valjean.

The girl giggled. "I am going to school."

" _Non_ , I mean this…" a spark flashed in Javert's eyes, that moment of inspired understanding when the world finally made sense. "This is my punishment for spying on you through the curtain," he stated dejectedly.

"Huh…?"

"Cosette, it is very important when you give a punishment that you are clear. Both about what crime you are punishing them for and what is the punishment. Repeat after me. For the crime of..."

"For the crime of…"

"Peeking through the curtains, you are sentenced to…"

"Peeking through the curtains, you are sentenced to…"

The girl seemed to be overjoyed by how much fun this was turning out to be, and failed to react to Javert's encouraging looks. "What is it that you want me to do?" he asked, slightly exasperated.

"Keep Catherine happy," the child volunteered, giggling some more. "I need to go now or Aunt Jeanne will say I am late."

Just like that, the girl was gone and only the doll, his nemesis doll, remained. " _Parbleu_! (My God!)", he muttered as he closed his eyes and tried his best to pretend it was not there.

Half of the morning had passed by the time Valjean stirred, to a tickling sensation on his ear. Reflexively he raised a hand to push it away, then felt himself wrapped into a larger, careful hand.  A deep intake of breath filled his nostrils with the sharp smell of ointment, then with the faint scent of apple vinegar he had come to know so well as they dozed on their way to Paris. He nuzzled blindly at it.

Three floors below, noise grew in the streets. Parisians went through their routines under the uncertain spring sunshine looking for the next meal, fueling their fleeting hopes, some of them rejoicing in short-lived victories. Oblivious to the bustle which was unknown to him, Valjean was reluctant to open his eyes; although it was not in his nature to indulge in this coziness, too new to be familiar yet too delightful to be ignored.

"It is past ten. You may continue sleeping but I must go soon to report our arrival to the _Préfecture_ and confirm your paperwork."

Valjean sighed as he felt the man’s foot reaching for a way out. Obviously there was no arguing against this, and all he could do was to take advantage of what must be subconscious lift of Javert's chin, as happens any time duty was mentioned, to brush his lips against the now exposed skin on the neck. The inspector hummed a sound which sounded pleasant to Valjean's ears but sat up away from him.

"I will walk with you. It is good for me to know where the _Préfecture_ is anyway." Something about this line made him feel a blush on his cheeks, perhaps because this felt too much like domestic bliss. To walk his partner to work. He slipped a finger under Catherine's skirts to scratch at his temple. “By the way... Why is she sitting on my head?”

“I must keep her happy, and you almost swatted her into the wall”, Javert replied solemnly.

Agreeing to get up and eat was easy, though deciding what to do with the doll to keep it happy took more negotiation. Eventually Javert set it on the table where breakfast - bread and butter, chicory - was waiting so he could make the bed. Then they sat close together to stave off the cold, because the stove was still off and the chicory, having sat out all this time, was no longer even lukewarm. They ate and finished. Then their conversation, which began from a mundane question by Valjean, grew into a very informative one. Valjean learned of Javert's childhood, what happened in Montreuil-sur-Mer since his arrest, and of how the infirmary he built for his workers ended up being the difference between life and death for a loved one. In exchange, he spoke briefly of the journey he took from Toulon to Montreuil-sur-Mer, and what he had done in the few years before Javert's arrival. The conversation would have continued if not for Javert announcing that they should depart now, to arrive before the early afternoon rush at the _Préfecture._

After a brief discussion where Valjean felt the doll should be placed back on the bed, while Javert felt that it should be left sitting at table because even a doll should not be sleeping this late, the doll was tucked back into bed. Javert took his saddlebags, shared his load somewhat reluctantly and donning their hats, they made their exit.

Jeanne's neighborhood was a sad one, pathetic even, but not the worst. Beyond Pont Saint-Michel and the Seine, the Cité sprawled into the horizon, a labyrinth of French gothic architecture and black mud. Raucous shouts jointed the hoarse racket of the swollen river, and the rumble of wheelbarrows, hooves and coaches. Valjean did not do much beyond follow and remain alert to his surroundings as Javert strode ahead purposefully, wearing the fierce expression of a predator in search of its prey. Chaos opened diligently to make way for the Inspector.

Around government edifices, the neighborhood was calmer. Javert led them down a small street near the Palais de Justice, then paused for a half step. Just enough for Valjean to notice. Pointing up discreetly with a tilt of his head to their left, he muttered: "Partially open second storey window, Vidocq's office." When Valjean's eyes followed, he caught a glimpse of the silhouette of the Head of the _Sureté_ who even in full daylight, crouched over his telescope. But they kept walking, slowly to give Valjean time to memorize the street, the building and of course, to watch the colorful lights dancing on the facade. From there, his eyes flew up to the visible glass windows of nearby Sainte-Chapelle.

" _Oui_ , you go there…" Javert nodded, something vaguely like a smile on his face. Out went his cane, used as a pointer, to their left. "I will be at the _Préfecture_ on the next street." Valjean tipped casually the peak of his cap then assured him they will meet there.

The rose window of the chapel bathed him in blue, red and gold sea, and he almost stumbled in, breathless. If mankind had ever managed to capture the splendor of the heavens, they managed it with the Sainte Chapelle. Inside the hallowed chamber luminous vaults arched skyward, as if in promise that any words spoken under their shelter would be heard by God. It was enough to move any man to pray, not the least Jean Valjean. To pray, and to count his blessings.

In contrast to his entrance, his exit was a hurried one: lost in the moment, he had also lost track of time. He was glad to find that the _Préfecture_ was impossible to miss, due to all the soldiers and other strongly built men on its steps, coming and going, watering horses, taking a smoke break. Javert was not out yet, and he waited in an inconspicuous spot for some minutes before he saw the familiar tall frame emerge from the double doors.

The news were all good. Aside from resolving all the legality regarding Valjean, Javert explained that he will be the new temporary guardian for Cosette in few days when his application is complete, and that for now Chabouillet had allowed him to entrust the girl to Jeanne. All can stay as they are.

Together they headed in the opposite direction from Pont Saint-Michel, towards the Poste Station beyond the far branch of the Seine, where Javert will board the diligence to Montreuil-sur-Mer. When they passed in front of the Palais de Justice, Javert pointed to the lion presiding over the stairway. His eyes wandered over the stone almost admiringly while he voiced concepts Valjean knew to be dear to him. The former convict listened in awe to his words, but mostly enjoyed the enthusiasm lingering in his deep voice. Further on, the crowd of clerks, magistrates, and bourgeois gradually grew more destitute. Noises peculiar to market days were a roar. Instead of dodging the entrances of small shops and businesses, Valjean struggled to avoid the forms stuck to the walls: beggars and vendors with their miserable stalls hanging from their necks; drunkards and people with nothing left to do but to wait for the night to fall.

Soon Valjean was badly failing at hiding his limp, even while standing. He did not know Javert noticed until the Inspector stopped in the middle of the street and pulled him out from the flow of pedestrians, then frowned at him. The policeman looked this way and that through the crowd, though it was doubtful he could have seen far, only to click his tongue in annoyance. "To the Pont-au-Change," he said. "You can sit for a bit."

The hand which held Valjean's elbow as he hoisted himself onto the parapet to sit, conveyed that Javert did not remember at the very moment why the older man was once called Le Cric, or did not care at all. It was a comforting thought, especially when Valjean was feeling self-conscious, ashamed for acting in such a rude and foolish way, for drawing unwanted attention on them.

Javert leaned on the stone by his side and quietly watched the river, while Valjean's gaze, now that he was no longer actively contending with unfamiliar surroundings, naturally fell back onto those people whom, in a different time, under different circumstances, he would have given his entire purse to. His eyes lingered for too long on faces which were, at best, indifferent; or over facades looking eerily similar: ruins held together only by the will of God. It was a vast city, an easy city to get lost in, to spend an entire life in and not make a meaningful contribution. But they do not even have that, an entire life. Most of their best years were already behind them.

Two kids ran past Valjean, chasing each other loudly.  Behind them, a woman walking arm in arm with her mustachioed husband shouted their names.  

The former convict glanced in awe at the tall man beside him when a sudden realization struck him. Old dreams were taking shape. To Javert. To himself.  "When you return you will be a father to Cosette."

Javert stopped watching the river and looked back at him thoughtfully. But his nod was a determined one. "Do you still want me to raise Gavroche as a son?"

"If you still want to raise a son, Gavroche will be lucky. Cosette and Jeanne will be happy."  He looked at Javert straight in the eye, because a vow needed to be solemn.  "And I will help you."

"I will file the necessary paperwork at Montreuil-sur-Mer."

Valjean smiled, for he was sure Javert will manage just fine. Anyway, paperwork should not be an obstacle. Not for a man of Javert's reputation and not when it came to the care of an exposed child. They were too many.

These were hard times for the people of Montreuil-sur-Mer, and now that Madeleine was gone and dead to them, there was very little Valjean could do to help. Not in the name of their former _Maire_ , and certainly not in his own. He whispered a plea for forgiveness that earned him a confused look of Javert, then asked the Inspector for his notepad.

Under the watchful eye of Javert, Valjean wrote a thank you note to Sister Perpétue which he carefully avoided to sign. Then he drew a map, very simple and twisted, a bit disproportionate, of the forest clearing where lay buried Madeleine's last five hundred francs, his patent for jet beads and other things which were best burned. Just enough money to pay back Vasseur and for Javert’s return ticket. Valjean smiled reassuringly when he heard Javert mutter something like "... every sou better be legally earned, and not smell of crime. Otherwise it will ruin Vasseur."

"You said in Montreuil-sur-Mer you wanted a promotion to Paris. Now you are here. What do you want to do?"

"I will end crime in France." Not a joke, not a brag, but said with a completely straight face.

Valjean raised a fist to his mouth and coughed. He lifted his head as he heard a flapping of wings. A pigeon flew over them braving the smoke, the roofs lying too close together; perhaps also the blow from a stone. They did not prevent the bird from relying on its forces and take flight. They should not.

"I want to start an orphanage here."

"A private one? To take the orphans too old to stay in state orphanages but unable to secure an apprenticeship?"

Madeleine, the _Maire_ , had founded an orphanage and so of course Valjean knew what Javert was implying -- that the only children he could take were rejected by their assigned masters, perhaps more than one, and those things happen for a reason. "They can all be good children, none of them were born criminals. Some people just need more time to learn, or a second chance. The only issue is that I no longer have a stable income."

"We will start each fortnight with some money and end them with less. But if the children you took in did not steal then the money was well spent."

Valjean stared a bit too intently into the face which trusted his ambitions as naturally; he lowered his eyes to the tip of his shoes and took a deep breath. "One of the most difficult things to get used to is I cannot touch you or kiss you without causing a scene."

The man adjusted his top hat and humphed. "That is just the way it is going to be, Jean Valjean."

Night fell slowly and surprised them sharing silence, at the calm they only managed together.  As the operators walked the bridge lighting the lamps, Valjean tried hard to not keep staring at his partner. All the while, Javert who was still watching the turbulent water beneath them, gushing downwards into a violent vortex.

"Will Gavroche also have a doll?" The hardened policeman seemed to have startled himself with his own hesitant question.

"If he is like most boys, his favorite will be a wheeled toy."

Javert turned round and with his arms crossed over his chest, leaned back against the parapet. "And it will not be a doll on wheels?" He asked, expectantly.

Valjean let out a rich laugh, pursed his lips then shrugged apologetically. "If you don't give him one and I don't give him one, he won't have one."

Javert nodded, his grey eyes flashing dangerously as he leaned towards Valjean. "I had an urge to bite off the head of Catherine when she expected me to kiss it... but it would be murder." At this, Valjean laughed unabashedly. "At least it won't happen again until I return from Montreuil-sur-Mer..." The Inspector tilted his head sideways. "One solution would be to shave the head of the doll, like I managed with you."

"No, no, no! Do not do that to the doll…"

"That will make the doll unhappy?"

"Yes."

"You should go back and make sure Cosette is happy with the doll."

Valjean left his stone seat and stepped closer to the taller man. They were standing thus for an awkwardly long moment, perhaps a little closer to each other than they should. Finally, Valjean gathered the courage to look up and stretched out his hand in farewell. He could not help but smile when Javert met his eyes and pulled out his glove to shake his hand. Strong, trustworthy and almost, almost tender.  The former convict's free hand cupped his guard's elbow and drawn a circle there, away from the eyes of the world.

"Goodbye and be safe, Javert."

"Stay safe, Jean Valjean."

Each of them had a long way ahead.

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 64 it IS the end of the story, and chapter 65 is merely an ‘author’s note’
> 
> Chapter 64 it IS the end of the story, and chapter 65 is merely an ‘author’s note’  
> *Under the Civil Code, Jeanne could not adopt Cosette because she had descendants alive and because she was not a male ancestor of Cosette. Valjean lost his civil rights when he was sentenced. Javert had no legal age to adopt a child (over 50 years), but he could be a temporary guardian.
> 
> Civil Code, 1804: http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k1061517
> 
> Map of Paris, 1820. Revised, 1830  
> http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b53025224x/f1.zoom.r=.langEN
> 
> Photography of Paris: The Cité seen from behind the Sainte Chapelle, around 1855. Bisson Frères.  
> http://www.photo.rmn.fr/archive/06-524254-2C6NU0P2PJC9.html
> 
> To know more about orphaned and exposed children. Décret du 19 janvier 1811. (PDF)  
> TITRE Il. Des Enfans trouvés, - L'assmat 
> 
> About pigeons:  
> http://www.colombophiliefr.com/pages/historique.htm


	65. Author's Note

 

Dear reader:

We regret having to include a new chapter for you to receive this note. We believe that its importance justifies it.

The convict and the guard is the beginning of a family and only the beginning of a universe with many more stories waiting to be told.

We finally decided that the format of the upcoming stories would be basically a succession of oneshots, with some exceptions.

We have both short and long stories planned, and putting them into a series allows us to post them out of chronological order, working on them as RL permits.

 

The plot of the first stories is taking shape:

We will follow Valjean in his attempt to work for the Sureté, with all its moral implications. We will see him struggle with his new family life. And of course, we will become witnesses of his new crusade: to found an orphanage.

We will find out if Javert is able to adapt to living with his partner and their uncommon family, and watch how his career progresses. When he talks about giving an end to crime in France, he means it. But crime and criminals will become increasingly frequent in the years that lie ahead. So Javert's task will not be an easy one.

Thank you very much for reading along all these chapters, we are looking forward for you to read the next stories!


End file.
